BackStories: The Call of the Day
by SaraiEsq
Summary: A series of sketches related to 'The Call of the Day' including the answers to some lingering questions from the main story. Sketches are mostly independent of each other; timing of new sketches dependent on my muse and real life.
1. Big Guys and Guns

**Backstory 1: Big Guys and Guns**

"Hold it right there, mister!"

I saw the gun first. My world contracted around – _revolver, six-shot, four-inch barrel, Smith & Wesson _– it.

Then I saw the eyes behind the gun. Huge pupils, pale irises, blond lashes, impossibly young, scared. _Patty!_

Another second passed before I saw what was connecting the eyes to the gun – the dark blue uniform of an LAPD officer. The sight of the shining badge centered me, calmed me. The gun – _S&W Model 15? Model 19? – _and the scared eyes kept me motionless.

"Easy, officer, easy," I said. "I'm a fireman with L.A. County. My name is Mike Stoker. I have some identification in my wallet."

"Don't move!" The cop had blond hair so light it was almost white.

"I'm not going to move until you tell me to, officer. Just take it easy, okay?"

Hurried footsteps in the hall. Patty's voice. "Mike!"

"Patty," I said calmly, "stay where you are. Officer, this is my friend Patty, she lives here. She can tell you who I am, too."

"Don't. Move." I hadn't moved at all but I concentrated on not moving a bit more diligently.

"Easy, now, I'm not going to move."

"Stoker?" I flick my eyes to my right and see a familiar face, then return my gaze to the man with the – _LAPD-issue Smith & Wesson K-38 Combat Masterpiece Revolver Model 15, modified for double-action only_ – gun.

"Hey, Jim." Since I'm being more diligent about not moving, I stop myself from nodding to him as I usually would. I was keeping a close eye on the fair-skinned kid's face, not sure if he was naturally that pale or not.

"Stand down, Freston," LAPD Officer James Reed told the trainee firmly. "Malloy and I know this guy. He's alright, Tims." The kid looked over at Reed for confirmation, received it, and started to relax his stance, gun sights slowly moving off me.

As for me, well, I stayed right where I was until he'd holstered his weapon then slowly let out my breath. Now I could see Reed's partner Pete Malloy come forward, releasing Patty's arm from his already-loosened grip as he did. "Okay if I get up now?" I asked as Patty hurried to me.

I could feel Patty's hand grip my shoulder, her thumb touching the back of my neck. It was a strong confirmation of what I'd said to Officer Freston – I was supposed to be there – but I waited until Malloy nudged the guy into responding to me. "Oh, sure, yeah. You can get up," Freston said. "Sorry about that. Guess I, uh, overreacted."

I reached up and gave Patty's hand a squeeze before replying, relieved she was okay. "No need to apologize." I felt like I had been sitting for days as I started to get on my feet. "As for overreacting, well, that would be for your, uh, partners here to say." I knew they were trainers more than partners at this point – new guys had the same look whether they were boots or cops – but it wasn't the kind of thing I figured I should bring up.

I didn't share my first thought, either.

"Here, Stoker, let me give you a hand," Malloy said. He stepped past Freston, nudging him closer to Reed, and pulled me the rest of the way up. Patty's hand slipped off my shoulder as I stood up, trailing lightly down my back.

"Thanks, Pete," I replied. "What's going on?"

"A 211 armed robbery suspect was seen entering this area about, oh, twenty minutes ago now. We're checking the neighborhood. White male, 5'7"-5'8", medium build, brown and brown, wearing tan pants, green shirt, and a dark gray jacket."

I straightened to my full six-foot-four-inch height and glanced at the rookie with my blue-gray eyes. Pete's lips twitched and the corner of Jim's mouth turned up. "Guess that lets me off the hook then," I said mildly.

"This time, Mikey," Reed teased me and I smiled, despite the 'mikey' he tossed in there. I heard Patty chuckle beside me and smiled over at her.

At this point, chaos broke out.

Both the cat – the one I'd been nose-to-nose with a few minutes before, the one who'd startled me into falling off the couch thus alerting the police to my presence – and Officer Timsen Freston suddenly turned to look out the patio doors. "Did you hear – ," the rookie began but was drowned out by the angry screeching and hissing of the cat-cum-demon.

"Chief? What's wrong?" Patty asked, moving toward the big orange-and-white feline spitting at the glass door, bending down beside him, trying to soothe him.

"Hold it, Tims," Pete murmured softly, hand resting lightly on the kid's arm. "Let's see what we've got before you do any more runnin'." He nodded to Jim who had stepped over to get a better look. I'd turned as well, the feline's renewed caterwauling causing the hair on my neck to rise.

"There's someone out there!" Patty exclaimed and reached for the cat. At the same time Reed shouted, "That's him! He's still got the shotgun, Pete." He pulled the patio door open and took out after the guy, heading to a low stone wall on the back side of the patio for cover, then bolting across the lawn. Malloy hauled Freston toward the front door with him, telling the kid to call for back-up and then follow.

I took two big steps, put one arm across Patty's back, thrust the other behind her knees, and swung her up into my arms, cat and all, in one smooth motion. Three more steps and I had a couch between us and the patio doors. I eased her down, just like I would a victim from a fire or an accident. "Easy, now, easy," I said automatically, squatting low beside her.

I could hear Reed's foot pursuit of the suspect through the backyard, including the jingly clang of a chain-link fence being scaled, then the returning silence. Certain they were gone, I looked down. Patty's rapid breathing and wide green eyes made me aware I'd gone way beyond the pale. I was looming over her, invading her space, scaring her; I pulled back carefully, giving her space and time. I could just imagine Reed's jibe: _Geez, Mikey, overreact much?_

"Whoa," she said, after a moment. "What a ride, eh, Chief?" Patty asked the cat still in her arms and smiled at me a bit unsteadily. I chuckled when the cat gave a heartfelt meow in response and stalked off, flicking its tail. The look still on Patty's face dried up my amusement.

"Let me help you up," I said quietly, offering my hand as I stood, allowing her to control her own ascent instead of just pulling her up like I might have done in other circumstances. After she was on her own two feet again, I gently held onto her hands for a moment more. "Forgive me?" I asked softly.

"For what, specialist?" she asked, a curious smile on her face, her breath still a little uneven. I hesitated for so long she prompted me: "If you think there's that much to forgive, maybe you should just hit the highlights."

"I fell asleep on you." Patty raised an amused eyebrow. "The police busted into your home because of me." Me and that cat, but she knew what I meant. She cocked her head at me, not impressed with my sins thus far.

And, …." I stopped then, because I really did feel bad about what I'd done to her. This was more than inconvenient. The unacceptability of my behavior had been drilled into me since I was, oh, fourteen or so. A growth spurt – six inches and almost forty pounds over the course of a year or less – and a fight at school had prompted my parents to give me the Responsibilities Of A Man speech. You probably know the one I mean – the bigger and stronger you are, the more responsibility you have to use your strength properly.

Even if you had nothing to do with it, there's nothing quite like having your mom point out a bone fracture on her own x-rays to drive the point home.

I realized I was squeezing Patty's hands and let go, rubbing my palms down my jeans to occupy them.

"And what?" she prompted. Even though I knew I hadn't _hurt_ her, I couldn't help but feel – .

"And," I said with a big sigh, "I'm sorry I manhandled you, Patty, really. I didn't mean to frighten you. I just reacted, uh, overreacted I guess." _– dumb as a boot._

"Nothing to be sorry for, Mike." She paused, then smiled more naturally. "In fact, I should be thanking you for protecting me." Patty leaned forward to give me a friendly thank you hug; I pulled her close for just a moment then released her, relieved by her graciousness. "Now, for the record, you," she poked me in the chest to emphasize her point, "didn't scare me and you can manhandle me to safety," she wrinkled her nose up in a charming smile over her own phrase, "any time there's a stranger with a shotgun in my backyard. Really, whenever anyone's pointing a gun at – ." She stopped, cold.

I saw it hit her then. Automatically I steered Patty toward the front of the couch so she could sit and crouched in front of her on one knee to evaluate her.

"He was pointing a gun at you," she mumbled, tears threatening. "He could have shot you."

The guy with two sisters in me immediately figured out what was needed and waved my internal fireman away. I moved up to the couch, eased her into my lap like I would with my nieces, and wrapped my arms loosely around her for support, letting her lean into me. "It's okay, Patty, it's okay," I murmured, stroking her head and back gently with my big strong hands, doing my best to make her feel protected and safe. I felt her relax slowly and just held her, kissing her tenderly on the forehead like she was one of my sisters.

As my father had pointed out years ago, being equipped to soothe upset females of any age is one of the _advantages_ of being a big guy.

* * *

_I do this for fun not profit; the characters (with the exception of Patty) are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are._

_Additional sketches will be forthcoming but I make no promises regarding the timing._


	2. Snuffed Out

**BackStory 2: Snuffed Out**

=+++= / +====

The fireman's ball was in full swing. The weather was mild enough for the large crowd to take advantage of the Medallion Club's back terrace. The club had allowed the Los Angeles County Fire Department to park two of their brand new ladder trucks out back, one on either side of the terrace. Numerous strands of gently swaying multicolored lights dangled from the extended ladders crossed high above the terrace, providing a festive illumination to the scene. Intimate tables with flickering candles were sprinkled around the edges of the area while tables for larger groups were concentrated centrally, near the doors to the main room which sported a cash bar and two buffets, as well as additional seating and the dance floor where women in bright cheerful frocks danced with firemen wearing dress uniforms or dark-suited civilians.

Sitting at one of the tables at the edge of the terrace, half-hidden in the mercurial shadows, Henry McConnikee was well on his way to being drunk. And, for once, he didn't care what that said about him or how it reflected on the family name. _Captain_ Tom-Tom McConnikee could just blow it out his ear if he didn't like it.

His glass was empty. Again. He pushed himself to his feet and walked carefully toward the bar. If he could still walk, he could still drink. That was the rule.

=+++= / ++===

Newly-promoted engineer Hank Stanley guided his wife to a small table that had just been vacated and helped her into her seat, letting his long fingers linger on the soft white skin of her shoulders before taking his place beside her. "Oh, Hank, it's so beautiful," she exclaimed, laying her head back against the arm he'd placed around her so she could better take in the lights above them.

"I'm glad you like it. I did it just for you, Em," he said, glancing back down at her. He couldn't resist the elegant line of her throat and dropped a light kiss on her clavicle, delighting in her tiny shiver and the fragrance she was wearing. Stanley eased himself back to a more proper distance for a public venue, hearing her chuckle in response to his sigh, and drank in the merry scene as well.

"Stanley?" a voice beside him asked and he turned to see his new captain, Tom McConnikee, standing there. They'd only worked a few rotations together thus far but McConnikee seemed to be a decent enough guy. Maybe a little too given to joking for a captain, but overall he seemed both competent and fair. Hank stood up, greeting his captain with a handshake.

"Cap, I'd like you to meet my wife, Emily. Emily, this is the captain at my new station, Captain McConnikee."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Stanley," Tom said, turning on the charm and shaking her hand, her murmured response cordial. "Hank, how did you get such a beautiful woman to marry you?" he teased his gangly engineer.

"Tenacity, divine intervention, and plain dumb luck," Hank replied amiably, resting his hand on Emily's shoulder. The contrast between his wife's classic beauty and his only moderately attractive appearance had prompted the question in one form or another for most of their married life. He'd learned to take it in stride.

"Ah, a man who appreciates his blessings!"

"Sure do, Cap," Hank said glancing down at his wife with a marked affection she obviously returned.

"Well, I just wanted to say a quick hello," Tommy said, edging away from the lovebirds. "Enjoy your night."

"Thank you, Captain, it was nice meeting you," Emily Stanley said in her soft voice and watched the stocky man make his way through the tables, clapping a friendly hand on many a broad shoulder as he went.

When another couple took a seat nearby, plates piled high with decadent-looking desserts, Emily's wistful glance was sufficient to send Hank across the room in search of his wife's favorites. He had just disappeared into the club when a man, carrying a drink in each hand, sat down heavily at Emily and Hank's table. "Oh!" she said, startled.

Henry had downed the contents of the glass in his left hand in a single long gulp before realizing he was not alone at the table. The woman's perfume reminded him of what his _súile glasa_ wore but a quick glance confirmed what he already knew: she was not his wife but merely an attractive woman. He dropped his eyes to the table cloth.

"What's a beautiful woman like you doing here alone?" he asked in a low voice.

"I'm not. My _husband_ is getting us a bite to eat, Mr. – ?" Simply mentioning she had a husband was usually sufficient to discourage the casual flirt.

"McConnikee," he said thickly, leaning forward to stare into his still-full glass. In the flickering candlelight, Emily now recognized his face, but wondered why he'd changed jackets. She knew dress uniforms weren't strictly required at these events but it struck her as odd to change in the middle of the ball.

"Oh, Captain McConnikee! I didn't recognize you at first. Were you looking for Hank?"

"I want to have a word with your husband," he said, still not looking at her. He sipped his drink, then held it over the candle's flame, tilting the glass away from himself and Emily.

"He'll be right back, I'm sure," she reiterated, watching him play with his drink. After a minute or so, she could see the alcohol flame blue in the glass. He poured the flaming drink into his empty glass then back again, repeating the process a few times, before he snuffed the flame by inverting one glass over the other.

"I'm gonna go," Henry said abruptly. He stood up, swallowed the warm liquor in a single gulp, and stalked off, leaving Emily to stare after him open-mouthed.

"Well, that was odd," she said, half to herself.

"What was?" Hank said as he set down the three glasses he had in his right hand. He retrieved the plate he'd tucked into the crook of his left arm and then placed it and the plate he'd carried in his left hand before her with a flourish. From his left pocket came two sets of napkin-wrapped silverware, from his right an unopened bottle of cold beer. The experience of waiting tables the summer after his junior year in high school still came in handy at times.

"Your captain, Hank," she replied. "He was here looking for you. You just missed him."

"Did he say what he wanted?" Hank arranged the plates so that they were laid out vertically between him and his wife. In addition to delicious deserts, he'd picked up some more substantial sustenance for them to share.

"No, just that he wanted to have a word with you." She picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry and bit into it. "Mmmm."

"I wonder," he said, about to open his beer for a long, cool drink. A loud shout of laughter from one of the central tables caught his attention and he watched as one fireman, dress uniform askew, began chasing a fellow firefighter around the table, threatening him with a half-full pitcher of beer. Hank noticed Captain McConnikee about a third of the way around the terrace, watching the antics of the Royal brothers, Frank and Jack, and caught his eye briefly. "Em, I'm gonna see what Cap wants," he said, putting the unopened beer back on the table. "I'll be right back." He stood then bent over to give her a quick kiss, tasting the traces of chocolate on her lips. _Mmmm. Gotta remember to get more of those._

Hank pulled up short to let the Royal brothers – who were now circling the front quadrant of the terrace – go charging past him, then stepped over to a smiling Tom McConnikee. "Did you want to see me, Cap?" he asked quietly.

"Well, no, Hank, not that I know of," Tom replied jovially. "Why do you ask?"

"My wife said you stopped by our table looking for me." They both watched the younger Royal brother being subtly maneuvered into a corner by his older brother's crewmates. Hank estimated Jacky-Boy was about two minutes away from a beer bath, maybe less.

"Wasn't me," his blue-eyed captain replied. "Maybe one of the other guys was pulling a fast one. In this light, well, – ." McConnikee stopped abruptly, narrowing his eyes as he caught sight of something or someone across the way. "Hank, would you excuse me? There's someone I need to talk to. Go on back to your beautiful wife and enjoy the party, okay?" Without waiting for an answer, he strode off.

"Sure, Cap," Stanley said to the empty space beside him, finding his superior's behavior a bit odd. The look on Cap's face mirrored one Hank had seen there a few days ago. A hot, smoky fire in an unstable building had forced McConnikee to pull his men back despite the report of someone trapped inside. He'd had to do a hard thing then to do the right thing. _What hard thing could Cap have to do here,_ Hank wondered with a frown as he headed back to his wife, once again avoiding the Royals run amok.

=+++= / +++==

"Henry, no." Tom McConnikee sat down across from his twin brother, pushing the half-full glass in his brother's hand away from the candle's flame.

"Now, Tom-Tom, you know the rules," his brother said mockingly. "If I can walk, I can drink. I can walk so I'm gonna drink."

"Yeah, I know the rules, Henry. Drink all you want but no more flames, okay?"

"Why not?" He moved the glass back to the flame. He liked to watch that little tiny flame come into being right there, right where _he_ determined it should. _I can control it, kill it, consume it, whatever I want. It's my fire._

"What if you set the table cloth on fire again?" True, they'd been much younger at the time, but Tommy was willing to ignore that detail.

"Don't worry about that, big brother. When it comes to fire, the safest place in the city tonight is right here," he said rapping the table top twice for emphasis. "Two shiny fire trucks, lots of _brave_ firemen, plenty of resources to put out any little fire I could make just like that." He snapped his fingers, continuing to watch the flames in his glass. "Maybe I should run a little drill. Pour a little booze over here, pour a little fire over here, then sit back and watch how _real_ firemen react."

"You know better than to blame – you are a real fireman for heaven's sake!"

"_Was_. I _was_ a fireman." Henry snuffed out his burning drink with one hand, oblivious to the pain. "Now, I'm nothing."

=+++= / =+++=

* * *

_Would you believe this piece started out as a comedic sketch with a poignant note or two, before evolving into this, whatever it is? Does this piece make sense to anyone but me?_

_I do this for fun not profit; the characters (with the exception of Henry McConnikee) are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are._


	3. To Taste Your Smile

**BackStory 3: To Taste Your Smile**

"Mike?"

He looked down at me, taking in my now-steady eyes. I was still mostly wrapped up in his arms but the intensity of the moment had passed. The sharp edge of my anxiety over seeing someone point a gun at him had been blunted by the reassuring sound of his heart and the comforting strength of his hands. I didn't feel awkward quite yet but I knew it wouldn't be long before I did. Mike knew it too. The one other time he'd held me like this – I'd _completely_ lost it that day, not just partially like this afternoon – our awkwardness had turned comical indeed.

"Feeling better now, hon?" he asked, a faint smile touching his lips. Keeping one arm around me, he slid me off his lap and back onto the couch cushion. I could still feel the long warm line of his body next to mine. I knew his next step would be to remove his arm from around me, and lean forward planting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand. He'd turn his head sideways to look at me, smile kindly, gently bump my shoulder with his the way buddies do, and say something inconsequential.

And we'd move on to something else.

I wasn't sure I wanted to do that, not again, not after the past few months, not after today.

"Thanks to you, yes," I said, reaching up to taste his smile.

=+++= / =+++=

It was not a friendly peck from a gal pal, or an aggressive sexual play from a so-called modern woman; it was just a long-overdue invitation.

=+++= / =+++=

Our lips met, the faintest tremble passing through his body at the delicate contact. I felt the subtle roughness of his jaw under my thumb, the distinct softness of his hair between my fingers, and pulled him closer, deepening my kiss so he couldn't misunderstand me. Mike's fingers dribbled across my shoulders and gripped the back of my neck, his hand sliding out from under me before I even realized I'd changed positions. He leaned into me without crushing me, shifting himself off the couch and onto the floor, and kissed me back with a satisfying thoroughness. I was pretty sure I was going to drown in the sweetness of his lips – and wouldn't _that_ be the way to go – when he paused and pulled back.

We were basically eye-to-eye – me lying on the couch, him sitting on the floor – and I watched him carefully for a reaction. Well, as carefully as I could with a brain and body flooded with enough been-so-long feels-so-good chemicals to cheer up a small country. "Hi," I said finally, lips parted, breath uneven. _Sweet petunia! What a delicious smile._

"Hey, there," Mike said softly, another smile crossing his face, blue eyes smoky. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his hand cupping my head lightly. This time I was the one trembling at the barest touch. He leaned forward – fingers trailing down my neck, thumb stroking my clavicle, hand drifting from my shoulder to the couch – and found my lips again. The gentle thrust of his tongue was at odds with the tension I could feel in his muscular arms and shoulders, with the firm grip he had on the cushion beneath me. Surrounded by this living steel, teased by his subtle touch, I made a pleased sound in the back of my throat, reaching up to drink more deeply of Mike's – .

"Hey, Stoker! You still in here, man?"

We both jumped at the sound of Jim Reed's voice in the hallway. "Yeah, Jim, we're in here," Mike called out, after clearing his throat. He rested his forehead on the couch beside me and sighed. "What a day," he muttered, eyes closed in resignation.

I grabbed onto the humor of the situation with both hands. "Don't look now, specialist, but I think the cops are gonna bust us," I whispered to him. He laughed into my neck then and looked up at the two smirking officers now standing behind the couch.

"Stoker, do I even _want_ to know how you ended up there?" asked Pete Malloy, chuckling at my devilish grin and Mike's innocent beats-me-ask-her shrug.

=+++= / =+++=

_Okay, I got a little sappy here. Sue me. Just don't 'Mary Sue' me. The Universal Mary Sue Litmus Test on Patty came back negative. Of course, if I give her the ability to fly or shapeshift, make her fluent in Klingon, Farsi and Portuguese, and endow her with the shooting abilities of USMC Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Hathcock, the musical abilities of Maria Callas, and the culinary abilities of Julia Child, that might change. But it's unlikely I'll do that … here._

_I do this for fun not profit; the characters (with the exception of Patty McConnikee) are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are._


	4. There's Something I Need to Tell You

**BackStory 4: There's Something I Need to Tell You**

"… Oh, can you tell Mike I wanna talk to him for a sec?"

"Sure thing, Cap." Roy said and headed to the dayroom. Hank turned and went back into his office, mulling over the last few puzzle pieces he'd just received, pretty certain of what was going on and what he needed to do.

"You wanted to see me, Cap?" Mike asked from the doorway. Hank waved him in, noting the ticket to tomorrow's event was stuck in the pocket of his perfectly-pressed blue uniform shirt.

"So, Michael, how ya been doing?" Captain Stanley was in his casual pose: rocking back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head.

"Uh, fine?"

"Good, good. I was wondering if you could help me figure something out." Nothing said Hank couldn't have a little bit of fun with this.

"Sure, Cap, if I can." Stoker leaned against the doorjamb, one hand in his pocket.

"When we got the call on the way to that inspection, you looked _really_ disappointed for a minute. I didn't know you liked to do inspections so much."

"I, uh, no."

"And Roy tells me one of the organizers was _really_ disappointed when she heard the engine wasn't coming."

"Oh." A tinge of red appeared on Mike's cheeks.

"Said something about expecting a _specialist_."

"Uh." The blush spread over Stoker's face while Cap tried to keep his face straight.

"Any idea why she might have expected a specialist, Mike?"

"Uh, yes?"

Stoker looked so much like a little kid caught red-handed in a cookie jar Hank couldn't help but laugh. "Have a seat, Mike," he said. "She's your girlfriend, right? The one who's been dropping off the packages? The one who's got you humming in the bay? Patricia, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Patty's my girl," he replied, the goofy smile reappearing briefly. "She's one of the organizers for the gala and she called just after roll call. I told her we'd be right over to do the inspection and we were both looking forward to …." His voice trailed off, still rosy-cheeked.

"Figured as much. Mind if I offer you some advice?"

"Shoot."

"I know this isn't your first relationship but it's the first time I've seen you distracted like this, which is why I'm mentioning it at all. Okay?"

"Okay." Mike had a tiny smile on his face now.

"Well, anyway, it's like this. If you want to go home to her at the end of the shift – well, I mean, you're not married so you're not going to go _home_ to her, but well, you know, that is, unless you're living together which I mean you could be and then you _would_ be going home to her, but even if you aren't or even if you are then, well, that's not the point which is that if you want to keep being _able_ to go home, er, seeing her, well, you know what I mean, right?"

"Uh-huh," Mike said, biting his lower lip in a vain attempt to keep the smile from growing.

"So, if you want to, uh, let's say see her again, whatever, then you gotta keep her in a box, not a literal box, of course, that's not even legal, but, and it doesn't have to be a _box_ per se either, just you need to lock her up, well, you know, again not literally, but just kinda put her in her place, maybe I'm not saying this right but – what _are_ you smiling at?" Cap demanded in an irate tone of voice.

"This is the put-her-in-a-box-while-you're-on-the-job speech, right?" Mike asked, and mimed placing something in a box, locking it, and putting the key in the pocket over his heart, next to the ticket.

"Yeah. I didn't think I'd given you this speech before … but you've already heard it?" Cap sounded a little disappointed.

Mike ticked the incidents off on his fingers. "Johnny on Friday right after lunch. Marco on Sunday morning just _before_ the church bus accident. Roy on Sunday afternoon just _after_ the church bus accident. And Chet on Monday."

"Monday? We weren't even working Monday."

"I went over to his place to help move that big wardrobe of his grandmother's. He took the opportunity to tell me a story about his granddad being in the fire service and how one of the guys was worried about something at home and, well, you know how those stories go."

"Ah! Well, it looks like you've had all the advice you need."

"It's good advice. And Patty's hard to get out of my mind sometimes," Stoker admitted sheepishly, "so I appreciate the reminders."

"So, when do we get to meet her? I was thinking of having everyone over next week sometime; Em's got some new recipe she wants to try out." Hank smiled as Mike tried to keep a neutral expression on his face. Mrs. Cap was an awesome cook most of the time. Her experiments in cooking, however, could be … interesting.

"We'll be at the gala tomorrow. I'll be callin – , er, busy most of the afternoon. So if you guys want to swing by later, after the auction – ."

"And miss all the fun? It seems a shame to waste the tickets Johnny got us. Besides, maybe there will be something cool to bid on."

A sly smile appeared on Mike's face. "Actually, I _would_ like you all to come. You'll get a chance to meet my Patty Mack and, as she likes to say, it's all for a good cause."

"Great! I'm glad that's settled. Now, I'd better get back to this report." Mike stood up at the implied dismissal, considering how best to execute his suddenly-hatched delightfully-devious little plan for tomorrow. "I swear I spend so much time doing paperwork it's not even funny," Hank grumbled. "And McConnikee wants this yesterday, of course."

"McConnikee." The name stopped Stoker at the door.

"Yeah, Chief McConnikee. You may have seen him around every now and again? Big guy, blue eyes, lots of brass."

"Oh, wow. _McConnikee_."

"You okay, Mike? You look a little pale there."

"I'm okay but, uh, Cap? There's something I need to tell you before – ." Mike shut the door eliciting a raised eyebrow from Hank. "You need to be sitting down when I do."

"Mike, I _am_ sitting down. You're the one who's standing."

"Oh, right. Are you sitting down mentally, too?"

"Yes, Michael, I am sitting down mentally." Hank put his paperwork to the side and turned his chair to face the agitated engineer directly. "I am prepared for whatever you have to tell me."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Cap." Stoker took a deep breath. "My girlfriend is Patricia McConnikee." Hank blinked, an eerie calm settling over his face.

"You're _dating_ the chief's _daughter_."

"No, Cap."

"That's a relief. For a second there, I thought you said McConnikee."

"Patty Mack's his niece."

"You're dating the chief's niece."

"Yes, Cap."

"Chief Tommy McConnikee's niece."

"Yes, Cap."

"The daughter of a brother of my former captain?"

"Yes, Cap, his twin brother's daughter."

"Repeat that."

"Chief McConnikee's twin brother is Patty's father."

"Are you sure?"

"Cap?"

"Are you sure they are twins?"

"I've seen the pictures, Cap. Patty showed them to me. I had a hard time telling them apart."

"McConnikee has a twin brother. What's his name?"

"Actually, it's, uh, Henry."

"Tom McConnikee has a twin brother named Henry. And you are dating his – Henry's – daughter Patty. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Cap."

Hank Stanley was silent for a moment, as the pieces began to fall together. Then he began to laugh. The laughter had a hysterical edge to it but relaxed into a full-bodied belly laugh soon enough. Mike had anticipated a number of reactions from Hank but none had included hysterical laughter. Little by little, Hank's laughter eased, returning the power of speech to him.

"Stoker, the last fifteen years of my life make a whole lot more sense now, thanks to you. I cannot wait to meet your girlfriend." Hank smiled hugely. "Now, get on out of here. I need to make a couple of phone calls _and_ finish this report. Oh, and don't tell the guys who your girlfriend is, okay? We'll let it be our little surprise. Thanks for telling me in advance, though."

"Sure thing, Cap," Mike responded, still confused but more than ready to move on. Besides, he had some planning to do.

=+++= / =+++=

"Uh-huh … okay, I got it … 'With love, Hank' … okay. Let me go over this order once again, Mr. Stanley. You want two dozen roses delivered to your wife today. The first dozen – five red, four white, three yellow – should be vased, with a ribbon, and the card should say 'My dearest Emily. You were right all along. With love, Hank.' The second dozen, same colors, should be identically packaged, with an identical vase, ribbon and card."

"Yes, that's correct. But the delivery – ."

"The first dozen should be delivered between two and three p.m.," the florist on the phone continued. "The second dozen should be delivered ten minutes later by the same deliveryman _and_ he is supposed to pretend he's never seen her before or delivered flowers there either."

"Exactly."

"I suppose you want us to claim there was only one delivery if she calls us here?" The woman's voice was indulgent. The romantic types were always so cute.

"I didn't think of that! Would you?"

"Yes, we can do that, Mr. Stanley. Would you like to add chocolates or a stuffed animal to your order?"

"I don't – wait, do you have chocolate-covered strawberries?"

"We have chocolate truffles with strawberry filling. They really are quite good." Her voice ended in a question.

"Perfect, perfect. Okay so I'd like one box included in each – ."

"One box in each delivery, identical wrap and ribbon. … Yes, Mr. Stanley, we'd be glad to do that for you." The florist always enjoyed starting newlywed husbands like this Hank Stanley fella out right – and not just because they were good for repeat business. She considered it her contribution to making the world a happier place.

=+++= / =+++=

* * *

_Three quick notes. First, I realize this is dialogue-heavy, not very descriptive, and decidedly sketchy. Although the idea for the piece came easy enough, making it work even to this extent was not. Since I already admitted this collection is made up of sketches, I decided to move on and let this piece remain, uh, sketchy. I'd been working on two other sketches at the same time._

_Second, I am not posting this to bump my story back to the top of the list. I'm just posting it to get it out of my hair and so I won't keep tweaking a dead horse. There are only so many times and ways one can rewrite a scene; this one has endured first person-Mike, first person-Hank, first person-eavesdropping Chet (okay, not really), third person-external, and third person-omniscient. If I try anything else, the characters will need some intense psychotherapy and we really don't want to go there, now do we?_

_Third, the next planned sketch deals with Henry McConnikee again, exploring why he stopped being a fireman. I had a good start on it, honest. Then I decided it was time for a little research. So, I called up the local fire station and asked if I could come over and chat with the guys. After three wonderful hours of conversation with six or seven of the guys, I realized I was going to have to do a rewrite, or settle for unrealistic, mediocre melodrama. So, I'm rewriting … and it may take a bit more time than usual to post something new. And Roy is clamoring for attention. And Marco has an idea for a story for him. And I've got the whole Johnny-Rand thing to explore. So, I wanted to give you a heads-up that I may post a little slower on this collection._

_And, as always … I do this for fun not profit; the characters (with the exception of Henry and Patty McConnikee) are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are._


	5. Siyotanka

**BackStory 5: Siyotanka**

=+++= / +====

It was 2 a.m. and the men of Station 51 were in the dorms for the night.

Before falling asleep, Marco had wedged his hand between his bed and the divider wall, grasping the metal bed frame firmly to remind himself where he was. Each time his dreams jolted him from the uneasy slumber that was all he could manage tonight, he felt the cool metal under his fingers, the heavy gold ring he wore clinking softly against it. It was enough, to keep him from yelling into the darkness, to keep him prone on the mattress, to keep him breathing.

Chet heard the clink of Marco's ring again and clenched his pillow more tightly until he heard the other man's breathing relax back into sleep once more. He envied Marco's ability to sleep even in those small snatches. Chet pushed the pillow into the corner, resisting the urge to punch it, and burrowed into it so that it cradled his head instead of his fist. Eyes closed, he tried once more to bring to mind the prayer his great-grandmother had always whispered over them at night, hoping it could hold at bay the memory of those innocents lost, and allow him to sleep.

_Deep is the night, my child  
But deeper is His love  
Know that He holds you close  
Tenderly from above  
Terrors of the day end  
His arms enclose your fears  
Rest sweetly, my child, with  
The God who wipes your tears_

On the other side of the wall, Mike slept deeply but not peacefully. Caught within a nightmare he couldn't break free of, his breathing was ragged, uneven. He gasped for air, unable to draw in precious oxygen, unable to move his arms, unable to reach the – . A soft inarticulate _gahk_ slipped from his mouth, his own voice waking him. Mike felt the pounding of his heart and a peculiar stiffness in his throat, as he tried to breathe more normally. The smoke he'd inhaled at the fire still irritated his lungs and he coughed softly.

When he could gulp air more quietly, Mike was able to hear Cap's restlessness. During the waking hours, Hank often paced when he was agitated. On a bad night, he sometimes paced in his sleep although he never left his bed, legs moving jerkily under the blankets instead. Eventually, he'd walk off his concerns or walk himself into the wall and wake up. Tonight Hank seemed intent on walking till dawn; Mike fell back into the breathless abyss of sleep with the whiskery swish of cotton sheets still tickling his ears.

Roy and John had returned from a run perhaps fifteen minutes earlier. Roy had tumbled into bed without comment, but seemed unable to get comfortable if the number of times he changed positions was any indication: from one side to the other, from his stomach to his back, from pillow flat to pillow scrunched, from blankets over his shoulders to below his waist, from arms behind his head to by his side, from leaning against the wall partition to dangling one or more limbs from the other side of the bed. It was debatable whether Roy was awake or asleep while engaging in his nocturnal contortions.

In contrast, Johnny lay still as a corpse, hands clasped together on his chest, eyes open and burning. Breathing lightly, he heard the small distressed sounds his brother firemen made while traveling through the feathery edges of an uneasy sleep. Sorrow and anger and helplessness warred for dominance within him. The structure fire that had claimed six small lives was senseless and tragic in its own right. It seemed poised to sweep through the station as well, leaving six charred souls in its wake.

Johnny wasn't sure what made him angrier – the strung-out mother-cum-babysitter's actions which had caused the fire, or the cruel happenstance which had forced all six of them to partake so deeply of the same tragedy. No one had been exempt today.

=+++= / ++===

The two-story house had been showing heavy smoke when they arrived. The afternoon was bright and sunny, the smoke dark and menacing against the pure blues of the sky. An elderly woman had approached Hank immediately, speaking to him urgently. The captain had hunched down to be able to hear the petite woman better while his men set about securing a water supply, pulling on SCBA gear, and dragging hoses toward the structure. All at once, Stanley straightened, the tension in his lean body drawing the eyes of his crew to him.

"Are you sure?" he asked the woman hoarsely.

"Yes," she said, tears in her eyes.

"L.A., 51. Request additional units and squad, three ambulances, and police," Hank barked into the mic, barely hearing the acknowledgement. "Stoker! Bring the Irons," he shouted and strode toward the front door, his men drawn to him instinctively. "Neighbor says the woman who lives here takes care of some kids after school. Said she saw the mother run out the back door but she hasn't seen any of the kids come out. So, we've got six kids in there, including two toddlers. She _thinks_ there's a playroom off the kitchen, bedrooms down the hall the other way. Roy, Marco, Mike, you take one hose left; Johnny, Chet and I will go right with the other. And we gotta make it quick, fellas, they don't have much time." Five pairs of grim eyes met his, determination tightening faces.

Without a word, Mike handed the axe to Hank, stepped up on the porch, and, after glancing at Chet and Marco to make sure they were ready with the charged hoses, tried the doorknob. Locked. He twirled the Halligan in his hands, bringing the pike end to fore, as he stepped to the other side of the door. Stoker swung the tool like a baseball bat, burying the pike in the door frame just above the lock, then twisted. The door popped open neatly and he snagged the doorknob with the Halligan to maintain control of the entrance as Chet poured water through the gap, quenching any flames daring to arise from the sudden influx of air.

Chet then Marco moved through the door and into the living room, turning in opposite directions, quickly knocking down the fire enough for passage. The rest of the crew followed, the paramedics in SCBA gear searching rooms while Mike and Hank – neither of whom had on air masks – stayed low and muscled the hose around corners and furniture.

Soon Hank returned to the living room, a child snugged under his turnout coat. "Stoker!" he yelled down the hallway over the crackling, popping fire sounds and waved his second-in-command toward him. Mike tapped Marco's shoulder to get his attention, signaled, then headed to the living room.

"Go help Johnny and Chet; we found the four older ones," Cap said coughing, directing Mike the way he had come. "All the way down," Hank added and headed out the door.

"Marco! I found them," Roy shouted from the room ahead, prompting the lineman to shut down the hose and enter the small smoky bedroom. "Here, take her," he said, thrusting a small dark-haired child into Marco's waiting arms, then grabbing the other too-still form from the mesh playpen. The two men heard the approaching sirens as they stumbled through the living room and out into the bright sunlight, just moments before Mike and Johnny hurried out with two more victims. Chet was the last to exit, carrying the oldest child – a long-legged third-grader with wheat-colored hair – as the second squad rounded the corner.

The newly-arrived paramedics found each man cradling a still small victim and grimly began triage.

=+++= / +++==

Johnny finally slipped out of bed and pulled his bunker pants on, the white of his t-shirt gleaming in the darkness. He eased the suspenders over his tense, tired shoulders and grabbed his dark blue jacket before heading to his locker. A few minutes later, he was climbing the dew-slick ladder on the hose tower carefully, the cord from a reinforced bag of soft leather looped around one wrist. He settled himself at the top of the tower, bulky boots dangling off the edge, and opened the bag.

=+++= / ++++=

It was their first day back on duty since the charity auction four days ago. As a result, Stoker was still catching plenty of grief from the guys over his girlfriend's secret identity and his own hidden talents in the auction ring. Mike was relieved when Randall Bearguide showed up shortly after roll call that morning, knowing Johnny's cousin would divert everyone's attention for at least a little while. Captain Stanley was clearly expecting Rand, welcoming him into the day room with a friendly smile.

The purpose of Rand's visit became evident when he placed a wrapped package on the table in front of Johnny. "It's a little bit early for your birthday," he said, "but I wanted you to have this before I left." The stocky man with long black braids sat down beside Johnny, deep brown eyes watching him closely.

"You're going back then?" Johnny asked, a shadow crossing his face as he placed one hand on the gift. Hank and the others averted their eyes, trying not to intrude on the personal mini-drama playing out before them.

"For a while, yes. Two worlds and all, ya know," he said with a shrug. "It's about time, don't ya think?" Rand added pointedly.

"Maybe, _mato_, maybe," John admitted. Rand frowned at his cousin then, scrunching up his face in a deliberate caricature of intense concern to draw a smile out of Johnny. "Yeah, whatever," he said, absently running a fingernail across one edge of the box, slicing the wrapping paper.

"Hey, are you gonna open that or not?" Chet asked in a joking tone of voice, hoping to feed the small flash of cheer he saw in Gage's face. Behind his hand, Hank smiled at his lineman's impulse.

"Alright, alright already. Just gimme a minute, Chet, okay?" Johnny responded with predictable grouchiness, then pushed away his melancholy. He began pulling the colorful paper off with exaggerated glee and soon popped open the box. Stoker whistled appreciatively when he caught a glimpse of the contents from his vantage point behind Gage, immediately recognizing a Lakota-style wooden flute from Patty's pre-auction research and his own fascinated examination of Rand's donations. Although different from the one Rand had provided, it displayed the same careful craftsmanship.

The _siyotanka _[see-you-**tahn**-kay] was nestled in the folds of a scrap of soft sheepskin. Seven bindings of a thin tough thread decorated its twenty-inch length, five narrow lashings positioned between the six finger holes on the lower portion of the cylinder. The other two wider bindings were about a finger-width on either side of a pair of square holes at the head-end of the instrument, which flattened and tapered smoothly into a mouthpiece perhaps half the diameter of the body. Situated atop the square holes was a curious carved piece called a block, secured to the body of the flute with narrow leather ties.

"Rand," Johnny breathed, clearly surprised by the gift. "Is this – ?"

"Go ahead," Rand urged, answering him with a slight nod. "Try it out."

Johnny reached out and gently picked up the _siyotanka_, examining the bindings and the red-dyed finger holes closely. His fingers caressed the block carving – a stylized claw – then trailed the length of the flute admiringly. Finally, he measured the flute against the inside of his forearm, the mouthpiece coming to rest against his fingers.

"Perfect fit," Mike said softly, breaking the silence. When the others looked at him in surprise, he shrugged. "Patty's a top-notch researcher; I was interested."

"Yeah, but in Patty or the research?" asked Roy with a sly smile which drew a chuckle from Marco.

"Both," came the quick retort.

"Uh-huh, sure, buddy," Johnny said with a grin, glad to divert the attention from himself. "Can you _prove_ you were paying attention to more than her big green eyes?" Stoker blushed, remembering his state of mind the _first_ time Patty had shared that knowledge with him, which set off the others' laughter.

"Yeah, but the real question, Johnny, is whether you're gonna play that 'front-held, open holed whistle, with an external block and internal wall that separates a mouth chamber from a resonating chamber' or just … hang it on your wall," Mike returned brightly, apologizing to Rand with his eyes for the implication the flute was only fit to be hung on a wall, not played.

"He's got you there, _mic'iyé_," Rand laughed, acknowledging Stoker's crafter joke. "C'mon, try it out. And don't give me any of that nonsense about forgetting how it's done." When John hesitated, he added, "_Škata ye._"

"Yeah, Gage, play us something," Chet threw in, unknowingly echoing Rand's Lakota entreaty. "It's not like we don't already know about your musical ineptitude. Remember those bagpipes? _Nothing_ could be as bad as that."

"Ha, ha, very funny, Chet," Johnny replied and, catching the bemused look on Rand's face, allowed one corner of his mouth to sneak up in anticipation. He pushed his chair back from the table and settled himself on the front half, sitting straight and tall in a manner which reminded Hank of how his daughter sat when she practiced her oboe for orchestra.

Because it _had_ been a while since he'd played, John took the time to run silent scales on the instrument before placing his mouth over the end and breathing life back into the _siyotanka._

The tone was soft and feathery, but gained strength as Gage played a few simple scales, adjusting the placement of his fingers slightly with each run to account for the bindings. The last time he'd handled this particular instrument there had been no bindings other than the ties for the block. He paused, locked eyes with Rand, and then began to play the same haunting melody his cousin had performed at the auction, adding his own variation before letting the final note fade off gently. It wasn't perfect but it was a credible rendition.

"_Was'te_, _mic'iyé_," Rand said quietly. (Good job, brother.)

"_Pilamayaye,_ _misunka nah mato_," John replied. (Thank you, brother-bear.)

"Gage, you never cease to amaze me," Chet said sincerely, a sentiment shared by the others.

"May I?" Mike asked hesitantly, indicating he'd like to examine the _siyotanka_. He thought there was something odd about it but wasn't quite sure.

"Go ahead," Johnny said, noting with satisfaction the careful way Mike received it. "Now, you can show us how much you learned from your, uh, research assistant."

"Body looks like Western red cedar, but the block is … not," he said almost immediately. A few minutes later, he grunted and added, "Huh, that's curious."

"What is?" Roy asked, amused at Stoker's interest.

"I can't figure out how this was made," he said, drawing a snicker from Chet, which was ignored. "It looks like it was bored – burnt out really – in a single piece but the bindings and _this_ line here make me think it was shaped in two parts and then rejoined. And while the wood _here_ looks aged, the block is clearly newer than the rest, the splitting edge, too."

"So Rand, which is it?" Marco asked, turning to the native expert and artisan.

"Rand didn't make it," Stoker replied absently, examining the topmost binding again, brow furrowed. "At least, that's not his mark," he said, tapping the front of the instrument where a particular design was burnt into the wood. The design included the letters 'RG' above the flat edge of a half-oval with four short wavy lines descending from the central part of the arc. A small dot appeared inside the half-oval. "Not exactly."

"She's good," Rand said to Johnny with a half smile.

"And, he was paying attention to more than her green eyes," Johnny replied.

=+++= / +++++

Gage withdrew his father's _siyotanka_ from the bag, marveling again that Rand was able to repair it, after all these years and after all the damage it had suffered.

The cracked wood had been carefully eased back together, over the course of several months, in a high-humidity environment. Rand had bonded the edges together and wrapped the bindings around the tube while they were still wet. As the cording dried and shrank, it pulled the two pieces even closer together. He had replaced the damaged splitting edge of the second square hole with a thin piece of spruce, and then carved the block anew from a piece of mahogany. After the tube was airtight again and the block lashed to the body, Rand had begun the tedious process of tuning the altered flute, carefully adjusting the finger holes, millimeter by millimeter. It wasn't like he could simply start over, not with this instrument, if he made the wrong decision, so he worked more carefully than usual.

When he'd finally finished the technical aspects of the repair, Rand had agonized over how best to modify the simple 'RG' mark Roderick Gage used so many years before. Rand chose to etch the pictograph for 'bear' he used on his own work underneath the RG, adding a single dot in the middle of the claw-shape to indicate a death.

Now John lifted the treasured instrument to his lips. He began to play softly, starting with the melody he'd demonstrated earlier. Soon he departed from it, following the impulses of his spirit, playing to the night, to the ache in his heart, to the six innocents the smoke and the fire had claimed. And as it had soothed him into peaceful sleep the night of his grandfather's death, the haunting voice of the _siyotanka_ in the night soothed John's grieving brothers inside the station.

_Do not stand at my grave and weep,  
I am not there; I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow,  
I am the diamond glints on snow,  
I am the sun on ripened grain,  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you awaken in the morning's hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circling flight.  
I am the soft star-shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry,  
I am not there; I did not die._

=+++= / =+++=

* * *

_Notes:_

_1) The tragic house fire in this story is based on an actual incident from about 25 years ago. My father was one of the volunteer firemen responding to the fire in an old two-story house the next town over. A woman with a history of substance abuse had been looking after her own children as well as a neighbor's children. I do not remember the details, but I do remember the six children died in the fire. Some years later, I learned from my mother how hard my dad had taken those deaths. _

_2) Most of my information regarding Native American flutes (NAF) such as the siyotanka comes from www DOT flutopedia DOT com or links found therein. It is an amazing resource. I combined historical information from Lakota, Cherokee, and Chippewa traditions with the work of modern crafters (and acoustic guitar repair strategies) to create and restore the NAF in this story. Although NAFs are often highly decorated and uniquely marked by the crafter, I completely fabricated the practice of adding the restorer's mark to an instrument. Regarding Mike's crafter joke: One of my sources noted a true flute craftsman does not want to be known for making 'wall hangers' (pretty but nonfunctional instruments) and further declared 'If you mess up, just admit it. Pull the top off the flute, make a new top, glue up, and start over. We are flute makers, not wall hanger makers.' (D. Shands)_

_3) Great-grandma Kelly's prayer ('Deep is the night, my child…') is an original work written for this story and is copyrighted thus: © 2012 Sarah J. Fuhrman. The concluding poem ('Do not stand at my grave and weep…') was written by Mary Elizabeth Frye in 1932 and is in the public domain._

_4) I do this for fun not profit; the characters (with the exception of Patty McConnikee and Randall Bearguide) are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are. _


	6. A Special Kind of Amazing

**BackStory 6: A Special Kind Of Amazing**

=+++= / +====

It takes a special kind of amazing to be a fireman.

I've thought about this a lot over the years, especially since I sobered up. And this is what I've concluded: A fireman is not amazing because he runs into a burning building.

Let me say it again: A fireman is _not_ amazing because he runs into a burning building.

What makes a fireman amazing is that he runs _back in_ the next day, and the next day, and the day after that.

He goes back in after getting battered and bruised and burned. He goes back in after collapsing interior stairs necessitates auto-defenestration from the second story. He goes back in after seeing the ceiling cave in on his best friend. He goes back in after the Beast has licked the sweat off his face and roared in his ears, sucked the air from his lungs and danced in his eyes, tickled his neck and caressed his belly, and gnawed at his boots, his coat, his gloves, and his heart.

Don't get me wrong: Going into your first real fire is as gutsy as hell. Once you've made the commitment to _be_ a firefighter, it's the next logical step. But even though you may be trained and ready and eager, you can't wholly kid yourself into thinking it's _natural_ to jump into the flames.

And when you're not drunk on excitement and adrenaline, when you remember with sharp-edged clarity the heat, the noise, the smoky darkness, when you reflect honestly on what the fire can _do_ to you – and you still want to run joyously into the fire? _That's_ when amazing shows itself.

And, for over five years, _I was that kind of amazing._

=+++= / ++===

Tommy and I graduated from the academy together. As boots, we were assigned to different, but adjacent, stations so we had ample opportunity to cross paths at fire scenes – to the confusion of our station mates and our captains. A single shouted "McConnikee!" would bring both of us running. Soon enough, Tommy was known as "Paddy Mack" and I had learned to answer to "Henry Malone."

Tommy was the ambitious one – taking classes at the local college, pouring over technical manuals, working extra shifts when he had the chance – but I was content being a hose jockey. I loved going into the fire. And after Patty was born, I didn't have any inclination to spend my days off studying with Tommy when I could be enjoying my wife and child at home. The Beast had already taught me to make the most of my time with them. On duty, I lived for the adrenal-endorphin rush of firefighting and rescue; off duty, I lived for my family.

And then came the day when both of my lives were shattered.

Tommy and I were working together that day which turned out to be a blessing. Tommy had been promoted to engineer a few months before; I was filling in for one of his engine crew who'd gone back to Texas for some family thing, wedding, funeral, reunion, something. We'd gotten the usual razing about being twins at roll call, but the captain kept it light, reminding the others at the station that calling for 'McConnikee' instead of 'Paddy Mack' or 'Henry Malone' would get you twice as much trouble as you really wanted.

And then we got the first call of the day.

You know most of the story already, how my wife and daughter were touring a textile mill when a fire broke out, how they were trapped inside along with a number of the workers.

What you _don't_ know is that when we went in searching for victims, I was the one who found Patty and Morgana initially. I honed in like a beacon to shrill cries of _momma get up momma we have to go momma let me up_, weaving down the aisles between large machines of equal parts metal and wood, and crawled right to them. When I realized the screaming child was _my_ child, and the sobbing trapped woman was _my_ woman, I pulled off my mask and started hollering loudly for my brother firefighters: _we're over here help us please God help us we're over here_.

Morgan told me later she'd already decided what she was going to do as soon as she saw anyone who could help them. While crawling across the floor with Patty, she'd had what seemed like hours to think it through. After she'd been pinned by the warping machine, she'd had several more virtual days to plan. _She_ was prepared to act.

But I was not.

You've got to understand: I went from a trained fire professional ready for all situations to a man whose whole family, whose whole _existence_ was threatened by flames and smoke in about two very rapid heartbeats. I knew at once I couldn't get them both out at the same time; I couldn't breathe because I knew what had to happen.

But when Morgan put Patty's hands in mine, pushed herself up as far as she could, and yelled at me, yelled _get her out of here go go go_, that's exactly what I did.

I grabbed my daughter, turned, and wove back through the smoke, leaving my wife to the merciless flames.

=+++= / +++==

Parents are hard-wired to protect their offspring. It's a biological imperative, the scientists tell us. Biology tends to ignore the human heart, which was the other thing I left behind for the flames to ravage. It took a lot longer to rescue that.

=+++= / ++++=

If this were a TV show, here's what would have happened next:

_I run outside, my child nestled in my arms, my manly form silhouetted against the smoke pouring out of the wide doorway. I push her into the arms of the first fireman I see, using an extra long television second to tell my little girl I love her and that I'm going to go get her momma, and then I meet the fireman's eyes meaningfully so he knows I'm entrusting something precious to him. Then I turn and run back into the burning building without a pause. A few impossibly long and dramatic moments later, I exit, with my wife in my arms, having heroically pulled a three hundred pound piece of equipment off her with one hand and pulling her free with the other. We are reunited with our sweet child, there is a long kiss, and the scene fades to black._

Since this is not a TV show, here's what actually happened.

I stumble out of the doorway, Patty clutched in my arms. She's still screaming, the shrillness of her voice assaulting my ears. Now she's calling for her mother: _momma momma where's momma I want momma daddy where's momma._ "Patty! It's okay, I'll go get momma," I tell her, trying to pull her arms from around my neck so I can hand her off to someone, anyone, and go back in. I signal for assistance, able to communicate my wife is still in there, but unable to get my daughter to release me. "_Patty! Let go!_" I finally yell into her tiny perfect tear-stained face, jolting her into silence.

"I've got her," someone says and pulls her limp arms from around me then. As soon as I turn away, I hear Patty start screaming again – this time for me: _daddy don't go daddy I'm sorry daddy don't go I'm sorry don't be mad at me daddy don't leave me_. Her piercing voice follows me into the fire.

Without Patty's little voice guiding me in, I can't figure out how to get back to Morgan. I stumble forward, confused by the heat and the smoke, drunk with fear. Several hoses snake into the building now, firemen trying to knock down the flames enough to allow others to get more frightened or injured workers out; the rushing men and the spraying water just add to my disorientation. Two firefighters wearing the department's new SCBA gear are right behind me, ready to help me if I can _just find my wife_.

Even over the roar of the fire, the crackling, spitting, creaking, hissing fire, I can hear Patty's shrill voice calling from outside – for both of us: _daddy come back get up momma don't leave me momma daddy don't leave me._

=+++= / +++++

I never did find my wife in those flames.

But someone else had, thank God.

=+++= / =++++

Of course, I wasn't immediately aware of that. I finally located the place Morgan had been trapped but she wasn't there. Instead of assuming someone else had already rescued her – which I would have done in if I'd been in my right mind – I kept searching. Dangerously pushing deeper into the fire, ignoring the shouts of the two firemen with me to back out, I was determined to find her and save her even if it killed me.

I don't know if I actually yelled those words at them, but they must have realized it. I could barely stagger forward, sweat and panic pouring out of me. I was coughing more and more heavily, my old-style gasmask long gone. And still I refused to turn back.

So, they literally picked me up and carried me out. I fought them, kicking and twisting. I remember one of them stumbling when my foot connected with the side of his chest. Before I could capitalize on that, however, he straightened and grabbed my legs in a grip that left bruises on my shins.

Outside, I couldn't stop coughing. But I kept struggling to get up, trying to go back inside, pushing the oxygen away. Without preamble, those same two firemen pinned me to the ground, ignoring my tears and my pleas, eyes impassive behind the masks they hadn't had a chance to take off: _let me go I have to find her my wife my God my wife is in there please let me up I have to save her._

Then Tommy was there, bending over me, grabbing my head, shouting directly into my face over and over again until I heard him: _henry we got her we got her out we have morgan we have patty henry they're not in there anymore they're both safe henry morgan and patty are safe henry – ._

=+++= / ==+++

I didn't figure out until much later which two firemen pulled me out and pinned me to the ground before I could sacrifice myself needlessly. This was a good thing since during those first few years I probably would have cursed them for saving me and thereby damning me to an existence without fire. Even once I knew and had come to terms with myself a bit more, I didn't have the guts to thank them directly even though they deserved my thanks and my praise. When Tommy pressed me about it, I continued to pretend I hadn't been able to make out their faces behind those fancy new masks. But he knew, and I knew.

And they knew.

I went to the fireman's ball every few years, intending to get drunk enough to approach them and thank them. I knew if I slipped up – either by lashing out at them or by blubbering all over them – everyone could dismiss it because of my inebriation. No one would need to feel uncomfortable. It never quite worked out the way I'd planned though. It seemed the universe was conspiring against my taking the easy way out: Tommy cutting me off before I'd consumed enough liquid courage one year, one of them being laid up in the hospital another time, even dear Emily distracting me one evening. The one time I managed to talk to them, I passed out before I could finish.

They both died in the same fire – a mercifully quick death when a wall gave way – maybe ten years after I left the department. I attended their funeral, along with about half the firefighters in the county. And I knelt down on the dark wet pavement before the three boys and two girls the Royal brothers had left behind. And I told them the story of how their brave and amazing fathers had saved my life that day. And I didn't care one bit how unmanly it was to have tears streaming down my face the entire time.

=+++= / ===++

I'd like to tell you that after the fire and after the extent of Morgan's injuries became apparent, I was still a dutiful and loving husband. I'd like to tell you that I was supportive during Morgan's recovery, that I cared for her tenderly and gently, that I reassured her I still loved her. I'd also like to tell you that I was a rock for Patty, that I helped her adjust to having a cripple for a mother, that I held her when she had nightmares about the fire.

But that would be telling you a bunch of lies.

Here's the truth. Or, at least part of it.

When I told the Stoker boy the whole McConnikee Clan had been very involved in our lives since the fire, that was the truth. I know I made it sound like they'd pulled together purely out of generosity and love but the reason the family had to step up and take care of Patty and Morgan was because I checked out.

At first I was able to handle being there for Morgan, being there for Patty. One of the nurses mentioned Morgan did better managing the pain from changing the dressings on her burns when I was there. So I arranged to be there twice a day for that – procedure. It was hard being there, watching her green eyes fill with tears, hearing her whimper or catch her breath. She'd hold my hands tightly. I trusted the medical staff when they told me my presence helped, but I didn't see what they meant.

Then one day, the nursing staff was running ahead of schedule and I was running late. When I got to the door, I could hear my wife begging them to stop in a weak and beaten voice I'd never heard before. I entered quickly, protectiveness rising within me. Morgan saw me, words tumbling out of her between little gasps of pain: _I thought you'd left me please don't ever leave me again go you left me don't go away get her out of here go go you left me_.

Everything that had been staring out of my mirror each morning for the past two weeks was suddenly in her eyes, the eyes of the woman I loved, the woman I had failed to keep safe. Her condemnation – wholly warranted and justified – leveled me.

As it turned out, Morgana had an infection; her temperature spiked to 102 or so. The on-call doctor said she was likely reliving the fire in her delirium and that I shouldn't put too much stock in what she said. After all, he said jovially, it's not like you _actually_ left her in that fire.

Things went downhill from there, for me at least. Tommy and the rest of the family were watching Patty most of the time; they thought I was at the hospital with my wife but I actually spent very little time there. And as soon as I left the hospital after seeing Morgan, I'd go get a drink or two.

When I returned to duty, about three weeks after the fire, I welcomed the work. I sought comfort in the arms of my dangerous mistress, reveling in the adrenaline, pushing the limits, daring the unthinkable. Before, I'd merely loved going into the fire. Now, I craved the fire's embrace. It was the only time I felt alive, when I was in the midst of the flames, subduing the wildness of the fire with everything left in me.

=+++= / =+++=

* * *

_Please note Henry's use of the name of God herein is a heartfelt in extremis plea to the Creator and Ruler of the universe._

_This is another two-chapter day, in case you missed Chapter 5.  
_

_I do this for fun not profit; the characters (with the exception of Henry and Patty McConnikee) are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are._


	7. A Call for the Living

**BackStory 7: A Call for the Living**

=+++= / +====

_Chet was the last to exit, carrying the oldest child – a long-legged third-grader with wheat-colored hair…_

The soot around her mouth and nose, and the blistered skin, had told him trying to breathe for her was probably futile, but he felt he had to try anyway. The taste of ashes in her still-warm mouth had confirmed it and nearly caused him to vomit. He continued however until McRaines, the paramedic from 84s, waved him off so he could check her. When the other man shook his head at Chet's questioning look, Chet had gathered the child back up into his arms and carried her over to where someone from the first ambulance – probably the dark-haired Angelo – had laid out blankets. Instead of placing her on the disposable yellow rectangle however, Chet sat down awkwardly beside it and continued to hold the child, turning his face away from hers. He noticed she had a bandage on her left knee and a long narrow scratch down one arm. A tree branch or a cat perhaps had marked her not long ago. After a few minutes, Johnny had come over and gently pried Chet's hands from the body, lifting her easily and away. Another moment and Chet pushed himself up, wiping his hands down his pants, spitting to clear his mouth of the taste of death, and returned to his job.

When Kelly got back to the station, he'd showered and brushed his teeth thoroughly, scrubbing until the spent toothpaste he spit into the sink was tinged with pink. The vile mouthwash Marco loaned him was at least strong enough to mask any other tastes that might have lingered but had no other redeeming qualities. Chet headed to the kitchen, looking forward to replacing _that_ taste with something else, something normal.

He learned the hard way the coffee on the stove was burnt; the all-too-familiar taste filled his mouth. With a suddenness only Roy witnessed, Kelly pushed open the back door and hurriedly stepped into the cloudless sunset's yellow-and-coral grasp.

Near the fence, he emptied his stomach abruptly, the sharp edges of gravel biting into his knees and palms as he retched. The heaves stopped after a minute, the belly spasms easing, the saliva no longer dripping from his mouth onto the ground. After spitting a few times to clear his mouth again, Chet wearily pushed himself to his feet, filled a bucket with water and splashed it onto the rock, washing the contents of his stomach down into the gravel where the smell would offend no one and attract nothing untoward. He scooped a handful of water into his mouth, swished it around briefly and spat once again.

Kelly returned to the kitchen, carefully breathing through his teeth as he poured out the bad coffee and rinsed the kettle thoroughly. He was about to start a new pot when he noticed the flecks of vomit on his uniform shirt. Chet sighed, returning the empty kettle to the drying rack by the kitchen sink, and left for the locker room.

When Chet opened his locker to get his last clean shirt, he found a small bottle of minty fresh mouthwash tucked between his shoes, and a bright yellow pack of Juicy Fruit gum balanced on the bottle's flat white cap.

=+++= / ++===

Marco had planned to go to his mother's house when he got off work the next morning. He knew she would fix a big breakfast for him, chat with him about his week, and fill him in on all the happenings at St. Raphael's. There would be talk of the single young women in the parish he should get to know, or a cousin's impending marriage, or the sad news of an uncle passing in Mexico. She might have a few small things for him to do around the house – things she could probably do herself but which she allowed him to do – in exchange for the hearty meal. It was a fiction both had come to enjoy.

Usually, he looked forward to returning to the familial home and letting life's burdens slide from his shoulders for a few hours, while Mama Lopez clucked and fussed over him, and his youngest nieces and nephews vied for his attention. Today, however, he knew he needed to process the events at that fire before he went to see her. She would worry if he didn't show up at his usual time, but a phone call now would be a dead giveaway. And she'd worry all night over her little boy, his state of mind, the condition of his soul, if he didn't tell her at least part of what was going on. Which he wasn't ready to do yet.

"Hey, Marco! Telephone!" he heard Chet call out from the dorms.

"_Gracias, amigo_," he responded from the bay where he had been standing, lost in thought. He went into the dayroom and picked up the phone, pressing the only blinking line. "Lopez," he said with a crispness he didn't really feel.

"_Tio! Tio Marco! Tio Magnifico!_" several youngsters shouted into the phone when they heard his voice. The jabber of excited Spanish washed over him, voices overlapping enthusiastically.

"Hold on, hold on," he said, smiling despite his heartache. "What did you need? Why are you calling?"

"We just called to tell you we love you, Uncle Marco," was the gist of the excited responses, followed by: "_Abuela_ wants to talk with you." He heard the receiver drop to the floor, and a giggling child retrieving it and handing it to his mother. Marco pictured her standing in her kitchen, the receiver from the heavy black rotary telephone tucked between ear and shoulder while she mixed various ingredients together in a large ceramic bowl with a wooden spoon, grandchildren surrounding her.

"_Mi hijo_, don't worry about being late in the morning. I understand. Whenever you get here is fine." Marco heard compassion in her voice but not the worry he feared. He realized she knew the bare bones of the matter and that was enough.

"How did you know I was going to be late, Mama?" he asked wonderingly in Spanish, his voice sounding much younger to his mother's ear than usual. She blinked away the moisture in her eyes before responding.

"A little birdy told me. Now, you need to get back to your work, but the little ones want to say good bye first."

"Yes, Mama."

"_Tio! Adios! Tio Magnifico!_" came the happy little voices again and he felt the tightness in his chest ease a bit. Marco wasn't sure who had called her but he was glad someone had. This was exactly what he needed.

=+++= / +++==

Roy's conversation with Joanne had been short and innocuous. He'd asked about the kids, mentioned he was thinking about reorganizing the tools and equipment related to yard work, confirmed Chris had summer league sports the next day. Life's everyday duties and deeds might seem boring, but boring was good sometimes. He tried not to count how many times he had made this same phone call, tried not to reflect on how well Joanne had come to handle these calls. And he tried hard not to think about how easy it had become to reset his internal equilibrium.

=+++= / ++++=

Captain Stanley didn't need anyone to tell him there would be questions about his decision to take his entire crew into that fire. It had been risky, stupid even, for everyone to go in. If the fire had flashed or part of the structure had collapsed, well, the next company on scene would have had no idea what was going on. And, in all likelihood, there would have been twelve bodies to recover not six.

_But what else could I do? There were six of them and six of us. Those kids weren't coming out on their own; they would have already done it if they could. Time was critical, so two separate trips in by part of the crew wasn't feasible, even if all the kids had been in the same part of the house which they weren't. If I'd told any one of them to stay outside while the rest of us went in, they would have obeyed, they would have understood the reason. But if we'd managed to rescue – not just recover, but rescue – five of them but lost the sixth, well, that man would never have been able to live with himself for agreeing, for following my orders, for not protesting. Hell, I could never live with myself for making that decision. It would have been like I'd left the boy in the fire deliberately. It was the only option. But stupid! So stupid! I risked my men for a bunch of corpses, just a bunch of stinking corpses, stupid, child-size corpses, nothing but – children, innocent little kids trapped in a fire, afraid, the victims of circumstances and criminal stupidity, just children – ._

"Cap, you have a call!" Marco's voice interrupted Hank's ugly thoughts. He'd stepped from the kitchen and into the bay to deliver the message, the open door allowing the smell of something flavorful but not spicy to creep into the rest of the station.

As much as he wanted to tell Marco to just take a message, Hank acknowledged the call professionally instead. "Station 51, Captain Stanley."

Most people would only hear a bit of smoke and distraction roughening his voice, but in those few words, Emily could hear a wealth of emotions in her beloved's voice. "How are you, love?"

"It was bad, Em," he said bluntly, closing his eyes. He took a ragged breath he knew she could hear. "Talk to me," he said softly, "Just … talk to me." And she did. Hearing her voice soothed him, helped him reconnect. They both knew she could be reading a cookbook to him and it wouldn't make a bit of difference; it was her voice he needed – her living, loving, normal, everyday, life-still-goes-on voice.

=+++= / +++++

The boy had been about eight years old. He had a thick head of sandy-colored hair and a smattering of freckles. When Mike had lifted him from the floor, his limpness had been alarming and telling: it was recovery, not rescue, for this one. He tightened his hold on the body, pulling the boy's head into his shoulder, and grimly turned back toward the living room, following John.

Once he was outside, he automatically went to Big Red and sat down on the running boards, the child still in his arms. Coughing, he pulled off one glove with his teeth. Mike felt for a pulse in the boy's neck, knowing it was futile because he could smell death on the boy more clearly now, could feel the waxy texture of his skin, could see the blackened teeth in the half-open mouth. One of the guys from the other engine company firmly, but gently, removed the body from Mike's arms and carried it over to the yellow blankets on the grass.

Someone else broke out the extra oxygen from the engine and pushed the mask onto Mike's face. Mike started sucking the oxygen, eyes closed, wishing he could get _that smell_ out of his nostrils. When his coughing eased some, Stoker tried to push himself up, to stand his post. He had work to do. If the fire was still burning, he needed to make sure the water was still flowing.

_That's__ my job, _he thought bitterly, _not recovering dead kids from hell – ._ A stab of shame caught him in the throat and he choked off the thought, struggling to get his breathing and his temper under control. He had work to do. Then he heard the smoke-infested rasp of Captain Stanley's voice reporting Code F times six and canceling the other ambulances and Stoker felt his throat start to close up again. Hunched over beside the big fire engine, he couldn't seem to draw in any air. Another unwelcome thought slid through his mind:_ Was this what it had been like for the boy?_

From the field of yellow blankets, Gage had seen Mike double up, coughing more heavily, almost retching. Choosing to remain with the dead beside Roy, Johnny waved McRaines and his partner Williams over to Engine 51. Stoker had just bought himself a trip to Rampart and a breathing treatment, but unless it turned out to be something more serious than it appeared, Johnny guessed Mike would be back home at the station by nightfall.

=+++= / ====+

When Dixie had confirmed Mike would be released to the station in a few hours, Johnny had passed the message along to the rest of the crew. It was almost time to pick him up but Gage sat in the locker room, fiddling with the scrap of paper he'd acquired at the captain's get-together yesterday. He smiled briefly remembering how first Joanne then Emily – Mrs. Captain, that is – had pressed a note into his hand, each nodding casually toward Stoker's girlfriend, Patty.

Now, Johnny hesitated then slipped the folded piece of paper back into his wallet, beside his personal list of phone numbers for the 51 family. Stoker tended to be a tough nut to crack at the best of times, and this wasn't one of those times, not by a long shot. Gage would wait and thoroughly evaluate his quiet brother tonight before dialing the new, untried number in the morning.

=+++= / =+++=

* * *

_Okay, I have to admit reading 'Coping Mechanisms' by NineMilesNorth made me think more about how the guys would handle the fire fatalities in the 'Siyotanka' piece. Of course, this story didn't quite go the way I expected, but what's new about that? _

_I got a little bit more information about smoke inhalation from another group of friendly fire station folks. Hopefully, I translated at least part of said information correctly. I would have asked them more, but well, the engine crew (along with several others) was called out to an apartment fire and then the ambulance crew got called out somewhere else. And, as we all know, duty comes first.  
_

_I do this for fun not profit; the characters (with the exception of Patty) are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are._


	8. Thicker Than Water

**BackStory 8: Thicker Than Water**

=+++= / +====

He stepped into the murky hallway, squinting as its peculiar brightness dripped into his eyes. Light pouring in from the open doors at the far end succeeded only in casting a glare on the dark floor which the passage of decades of students had hollowed. Although individuals had been reduced to mere silhouettes in the brilliance, a quick glance up the hallway revealed the man he sought not far ahead.

"Hey, Kyson, wait up!" The blond-haired man paused and half-turned, letting the continuing flow of people break around him, a broad-shouldered boulder in a stream of humanity. "I understand congratulations are in order for you and Jill," Tom said amiably when he caught up with his fellow engineer. Even a casual observer would agree the two men had been stamped from the same mold – both were muscular and solid, just above average height, innate confidence translating into an upright manner of moving that barely missed being martial. But they'd been rendered in contrasting media, resulting in Tom McConnikee having dark hair and cool blue eyes and Paul Kyson warm brown eyes and middling blond hair.

"Yeah, thanks," Paul replied. "We're excited and nervous. Who woulda thought I'd be a father again so soon?"

"I dunno, your wife, maybe?"

"Ha! Funny, McConnikee, very funny." The other man just grinned in reply as they continued walking down the crowded hallway together. Richly-toned paneled walls rose officiously from the marble floor, punctuated by utilitarian wood and glass doors. Simple black numbers were stenciled on each window and perhaps a quarter of the doors sported gold-flecked lettering as well, proclaiming departmental specialties: Anthropology, Sociology, Psychology.

When they exited the academic building into the bright southern California sunlight, Tom cocked his head to the right, eyebrows raised questioningly. Paul nodded and the two men walked to the end of the block, crossed the street, and entered O'Malley's Grill and Bar. It was only after they'd ordered and the waitress had brought them drinks that Paul began to work the general conversation about class in the direction he needed it to go.

"So, how is your sister-in-law doing?" he asked, sipping the dark beer briefly. "It's been, what, six months or so since the fire?" The fire had become infamous not only because it had touched a fireman's family but also because the design of the building had contributed to the casualty count.

"Morgan's doing really well, considering," Tommy replied casually. "Her burns are healing; the skin grafts seem to be doing okay. The paralysis is likely to be permanent, but we haven't given up on physical therapy." He'd answered these questions before and had learned to say it in an economical way, without pity or shame. Those who wanted to know more could ask but most were satisfied with the platitudes he offered.

"And the girl?"

"Patty Mack?" he replied with an actual smile. "She's doing great. Children are amazing." Despite his cheerful response, he said it with a little ache in his heart. Patty had become very dear to him and he had a hard time not getting in his brother's face about how Henry was neglecting her. She wasn't _neglected_ – Clan McConnikee had seen to that – but her father was too absent to suit Tom. He'd even tried fooling her into thinking he was Henry once or twice – to provide at least the illusion of fatherly stability – but Patty saw right through him every time.

"I have to say, I'm surprised to hear they are doing so well. I assumed things weren't all that good, from Henry's … behavior." Paul smiled up at the waitress as she brought them chili and sandwiches; once she turned away, he let the smile fall from his face.

"Problems?" Tom asked, sampling his chili; he added a little hot sauce and tried it again. Better. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what Paul was probably going to tell him, but he needed to know. There had already been hints from a few other people. As the engineer on Henry's regular shift, Paul would know what was going on … which was part of the reason Tommy'd sought him out.

"Uh, you know, a coupla more bouts of Irish flu a month than usual." _He's coming to work hung over a lot._ "He gets better by the end of shift but he's, uh, still pretty touchy most of the time." _He's irritable and moody._ "So the guys are giving him a wide berth these days." _They don't trust him._ "And then there's his _work_ attitude."

"Oh? He slackin' off?" That wouldn't surprise Tom, if Henry were barely going through the motions. He was barely going through the motions with his family after all. Morgan and Patty deserved better, and it angered Tom more than he wanted to admit.

"On the contrary. He's the first one in to _every_ fire, every rescue. Cap can't stop him when it comes to fire." _He's overeager and Cap is annoyed._

"That's not a bad thing, is it?" Tommy knew there was more to it as he took a large bite out of his sandwich. The grilled cheese here was good, with three different kinds of cheeses and a pinch of sugar.

"He's also the last one out when we fall back." Paul took a few more bites of chili, weighing how he wanted to communicate what was _really_ bothering him. "It's almost like … he doesn't want to leave the fire," he finally said. Tom looked up and met his friend's eyes briefly, then grunted dismissively and took a drink from his glass. For a few moments, they ate in silence with only the clink of utensils marking time for them.

"Hey, did you see Crazylegs Hirsch in the Rams game the other day?" McConnikee asked suddenly.

"Oh, yeah, we caught some of it on the television at the station. And the punt return by that Woodley kid was _unreal_. Seventy-some yards, wasn't it?" The change of subject was abrupt enough to let Kyson know he'd gotten his point across. He wondered what McConnikee planned to do next; he definitely had something in mind. Paul could see it in those cool blue eyes.

"Seventy-eight," Tommy confirmed. "He just blew past the Lions like they were standing still. And then Van Brocklin hooked up with Boyd for another TD – ."

"Missed that, I guess. We got called out right at the start of the fourth quarter," Kyson said, then sighed. "The same thing'll probably happen this Sunday, too."

"Aren't you going to the game? It's dem Bears of yours." Paul's love of the Chicago Bears was well-known in the department and he'd managed to make it to The Game the past few years, trading shifts or cashing in favors he'd stored up all year to do it.

"Planned to but I can't. Sorenson was going to take my shift but now _I'm_ working for Sorenson instead of him working for me." The station's senior engineer had broken his leg a few days ago and he'd be out a good six weeks. The stand-by engineer wasn't able to fill in until Tuesday's shift which left Kyson holding the bag.

"What if _I_ work for you?" McConnikee offered nonchalantly, finishing off the last few bites of his chili and taking another swig of his iced tea, before meeting Paul's brown eyes. _I have to see how bad it is, Paul._

"Sure you want to?" _It's not pretty, Tom._

"Yeah," Tom said. _No choice, man; he's my brother._ "I can always use an extra shift or two. And, I'll have _you_ in _my_ pocket when Notre Dame's in town." _Wish me luck._

"Go Irish!" Paul said, approving the trade and the plan. _You'll need it, pally, you'll need it._

=+++= / ++===

The smoke was thick but Henry could sense the fire wasn't much further. The _plink_ of glass cracking sent a shiver down his spine, despite the sweat pouring off him; it always had, in every fire he'd ever been in. Metal cans began popping from the heat, the random _plonks_ becoming more frequent as they neared the kitchen. There was a dull orange glow ahead, like banked embers in a room-sized fireplace. The crackle and roar of a working fire grew louder as he moved forward, the air growing heavy with humidity as the water already being poured onto the flames turned to steam and fog. Around the last corner and he could see the flames themselves devouring cabinet and crockery alike, black smoke curling in the air, pushed around by thermals he could almost see in the thick air.

For just a second, a half-second, a tenth-second, Henry watched the flames dance, a sinuous seduction of the air and the wood, and considered how an as-yet unconsummated union with fragile flesh might be the solution. Another series of _plinks_ from the panes of glass in the door of one of the cabinets caused him to flinch, breaking into his unholy fascination with the flames. Angry at himself, Henry growled back at the flames and turned his attention to killing the evil presence which had so maimed his heart, once more a firefighter intent on extinguishing the flames, not – whatever it was he had been for a moment.

The veteran fireman backing him up affected not to notice the growl but wondered how he could feel a chill in a room filled with hot gases, roiling smoke, and hissing fire. _Next time he picks up an extra shift __here_, the man thought_, McConnikee is gonna have to find someone else to back him. I ain't gonna do it, that's for sure._

=+++= / +++==

"Uncle Tommy! Uncle Tommy!" The sweet piping voice greeted him when he got home from his lunch with Paul. "Can we play fire trucks again?"

"Sure, Patty Mack, any time you want." Tommy put down his books and picked up his niece, swinging her around as she laughed in delight.

=+++= / ++++=

The next day, the captain on Paul and Henry's regular shift approved the various personnel requests for Sunday, noting he'd have two of his regular linemen, the two McConnikees, and a kid so new he squeaked, on the engine. Technically, Dickie Hammer wasn't a boot since he was past his probationary period, but he was still young and inexperienced. He'd need watching over. Captain Farnsworth wasn't oblivious to Henry's state of mind but chose to ignore it and refused, absolutely refused, to mollycoddle him. Expecting McConnikee would step up to the plate with Hammer, Cap decided to give Henry the task of shepherding the new guy this shift. He really was very good at watching out for and bringing along the boots. If he stayed with the department, he'd be a good academy instructor some day.

=+++= / +++++

The main part of the three-story building was about fifty feet wide by five hundred feet long. With heavy timber framing, brick sheathing, and abundant paned windows, the factory was typical mid-century construction. A pair of central stairwells provided primary access for workers to the upper floors while a single staircase on the west end of the building led to executive offices on the second floor and administrative workspace on the third.

A matching staircase on the east end of the building had been removed when the factory was retooled in '42 as part of the war effort. The last eighty or so feet of the second and third floors on the east end had also been demolished, creating a full-height open bay to which a metal frame structure had been added. The 8,500-square-foot addition jutted out from the northeast corner of the building; two long wings speared out from the central part of the addition where a state-of-the-art refrigeration unit was housed. Storage space above the main floor of the addition could be reached by a series of metal stairs; a movable pulley system was used to move larger items into and out of the open space storage.

The facility had been shut down, awaiting a post-war renovation, when fire had broken out in the west end of the building, in a file room on the second floor, late on that Sunday afternoon. The broad windows allowed passersby – and the fire department – to track the uneven progress of the fire on each floor. It became quickly apparent they needed to stop the progress of the fire before it reached the central stairwells or they would be forced to fall back to a primarily exterior attack. There were no usable stairs at the east end of the building.

When Henry sized up the scene, he realized the second floor would be plagued by twin dangers: the fire below burning up through the floor until it collapsed and plunged the unwary into the waiting flames, and the fire above burning down through the ceiling until it collapsed and rained chunks of burning materials on the unsuspecting. _It would do just fine_, he thought with a grim smile.

=+++= / =++++

Hammer hustled out of the smoke-filled entrance, pulled off his mask, and smiled. He blinked when he saw the now-familiar name across the back of a fireman standing by the engine. He'd spent the day with those shoulders and that name in front of him. Puzzled, he picked his way through the hoses and touched the man on the arm.

"Hey, how did you get out here so fast?" Hammer asked Tom McConnikee.

"What?" Tommy stared at Dickie blankly, mind on regulating the flow of water and tracking the progress of the fire. It wasn't looking too good on the first floor.

"I followed the hose out, like you said. You were right, I didn't get lost and I made it out. But I figured I'd get out here before you." Hammer wiped his face, managing only to smear the soot across his forehead more uniformly. "Did you take another route back out or what?"

"What are you talking about?" Tommy asked again. Then, realizing Hammer's mistake, Tommy began to scan the scene intently, looking for his doppelganger brother. "Aw, hell." He grabbed the confused kid's arm and pulled him toward Captain Farnsworth, who was observing the fire about fifteen feet from the engine. "Cap? I think something's wrong. Dickie said Henry told him to follow the hose out. But I don't see my brother outside anywhere."

"Henry Malone's still inside?" Farnsworth asked, a bad feeling settling in his stomach.

This was the third fire they'd handled this shift and Henry had gotten more and more agitated after each one. Sure, he'd been surprised to see his brother filling in for Kyson at the start of the shift, instead of one of the guys from 18s. And he'd not been too happy to be paired with the Hammer kid, although he'd come around a little bit by early afternoon, just like Farnsworth had expected. He'd also seemed frustrated after the first two fires had been small and quickly extinguished.

Now, they were at the scene of a large, well-involved structure fire. Farnsworth got a chill when he remembered the calm, satisfied look that had settled on Henry's face a few minutes after they'd pulled up to the fire. He'd clapped his brother on the back with a broad smile, motioned for Dickie to follow, and began hauling hose toward the main entrance. Just before he'd entered, Henry had turned back – taking in the firemen scrambling on, off, over, and around the assembled fire apparatus. Then he nodded once to Farnsworth and went in.

"Go get that son of a – ," Cap started to growl at Tom when the signal went out for everyone to fall back. "Damn!" he said and hurried toward the battalion chief. "Stay here, McConnikee!" he yelled over his shoulder.

Tommy turned to Hammer, who was starting to get the – very ugly – picture. "Dickie, what floor were you workin' on?" he asked urgently, pulling him back toward the engine.

"Second, just about there," he said, pointing to a window about one-third of the way down the building's length. The fire had advanced perhaps another thirty feet, he thought, than when he'd followed Henry's order to leave. "What are you doing?" he asked as Tom shrugged into his air tank.

"Goin' to get my fool of a brother." The younger man started to pull his gear on again, only to be stopped by McConnikee's firm hand. "No. This is a-a family matter. You're going to stay _here_. If Henry comes out before I do, tell him I had clan business inside." Tom smiled suddenly. "If _Cap_ asks where I am, tell him I decked you and ran inside like a crazy man."

"No! You can't do this alone," Dickie argued, grabbing hold of the other man's turnouts. "I left him when I shouldn't have – I know that now – so I'm going with – ." Tom's fist interrupted Hammer, stunning him. McConnikee plunked him down by the engine and then went into the building, swimming against the tide of exiting firemen.

=+++= / ==+++

It was the oddest thing.

Water was relatively quiet when compared to all the noises a fire could generate, but he was able to pick it out well enough. The sound of water flowing onto the fire made Henry easier for Tom to find and revealed the oddity: Henry was still fighting the fire on the second floor.

Tom grabbed the back of Henry's neck and gave him a little shake, then put one hand on his brother's shoulder and the other on the charged line. Slowly, he forced Henry to retreat from the fire, step by step, until they were beside the stairwell again.

Reluctantly, Henry shut down the nozzle and turned to his brother, who had loosened up his mask enough to be able to speak. Henry followed suit. There was still time for the McConnikees to exit safely, but the distance between the flames and the stairwell was diminishing.

"Hello, Henry."

"Hi, big brother. What brings you in here?" Henry's voice was as casual as though Tom had walked into a diner instead of a burning building to speak to him, but he was watching the other man carefully. This was a complication he hadn't expected.

"Apparently there's some _clan_ business to be taken care of in here."

"Oh?"

"Looks like _someone_ got himself all twisted up inside."

"Really?"

"Seems _someone_ needs some extra help finding his way back."

"That so?"

"Henry…." Tom clenched his fists but resisted the urge to slug-and-lug. Decking his brother and carrying him out of this fire would fix the immediate problem but what was inside Henry would still be smoldering dangerously. Next time, Tom might not be available to douse the flames.

"What?" Cool blue eyes stared into cool blue eyes, mirrors without the regression to infinity.

"We gotta _go_, Henry." He reached out and grabbed his brother's upper arms, giving him another little shake, and tried to turn him toward the stairs. "There are people depending on us."

"You do, maybe. Not me," Henry shot back, jerking away. He noticed the flames had inched closer, but kept his eyes on Tommy, expecting him to try something. Tommy would fight dirty if he had to.

"Who's gonna take care of your family if you … stay here?"

Henry snorted. "You will, Tom. You're already doin' it now, better than I ever could." He pushed his mask over his face and took a deep breath, then let it fall again.

"Not gonna happen," Tommy said, shaking his head. The fire was getting closer, the place where they stood hotter, with every moment. He needed to force his brother's hand and he had only one idea. It all depended on whether Henry still cared.

"_Right!_" Henry found his brother's posturing almost amusing. "Like you'd _ever_ turn Patty Mack or Morgan away from your door."

"I wouldn't," he admitted, pulling off his helmet. "But since I'm not going anywhere without you, that won't come into play, will it, little brother?" Tom removed his air mask completely and automatically replaced his helmet. "Either you'll be there for them, or neither of us will." He took about three deep breaths from the mask, heart pounding. _Dying wasn't on my agenda today,_ Tom thought_, but I'm willing to pencil it in for you, brother._ He shrugged his air tank off, holding it and the mask in his right hand, hefting it just a bit, trying to get used to the weight. The mask slipped out of his fingers and he bent to secure it to the tank differently, sneaking one last sip of good air.

As he watched his brother's actions, Henry became less amused and more alarmed. "What are you _doing?_ You need to just go, Tom. Just – go."

Tom stood, stepped closer, grabbed his brother's turnout coat at the throat with one big hand. "We came _into_ this world together, McConnikee, and, if you insist on staying here, we'll go _out_ of this world together," Tommy said harshly in a clear, trumpet-like voice. And with that, he stepped back and heaved his air supply into the encroaching flames.

=+++= / ===++

When his 45-day suspension was over, Thomas McConnikee was assigned to a different station under a captain known for his firm hand. He was lucky to retain his job and his rank after assaulting a fellow firefighter, disobeying a direct order, leaving his post at an active scene, and threatening a superior with bodily harm, even though said harm was anatomically impossible. At least three things worked in his favor: his exemplary record in the department; the highly unusual circumstances which had prompted the incident as attested to by Kyson, Farnsworth, Hammer, and others; and Henry.

When the incident was reviewed by the department, Henry McConnikee was found to have exhibited poor judgment when he failed to exit the fire in a timely manner and was suspended for ten days. He was assigned a desk job at headquarters, pending an evaluation of his fitness to return to firefighting.

=+++= / ====+

About five days before Tom's suspension was up, the department planned a live burn exercise on Wardlow, west of Alameda. Henry arrived on the scene early, turnout gear in hand. Slated for demolition as part of yet another public works project, the duplex had been stripped of its contents and checked for structural hazards. As a result, the only thing most of the participating firemen would be fighting was the fire itself.

Henry knew he'd be fighting himself as well. This was a final exam, of sorts, for him. Passing meant he could continue to be a fireman; failing meant … something else. Without the distraction of firefighting and the periodic lure of flames for the past few weeks, he'd had time to consider what that 'something else' might entail but he had no answers yet.

He had even found himself lingering after Mass the other day, wondering if he might find some answers in the church.

Before long, two fire engines and one departmental car pulled up, spilling firemen from various shifts and stations into the yard. A few more private vehicles arrived soon after and several more firemen reported for the training. Henry was surprised to see Dickie Hammer and Paul Kyson among them; he was even more surprised when Hammer came over to him immediately with a firm handshake. "Good to see you, Henry," he said soberly. Hammer looked older in some indefinable way and it bothered Henry.

A blast of an engine's air horn brought all of the men together, several of them opting to kneel as the chief briefed them on the day's event and ground rules: 'Teams will rotate into and out of the fire as directed, no exceptions.' 'Partners will stay together at all times, no exceptions.' 'All orders will be obeyed promptly, no exceptions.' When he was finished, one of the training captains stepped forward and read off pairs of names, directing them to the rear entrance of one side of the duplex. Another captain read off another set of names, pairing up the participants and sending them to the front of the other side.

Hammer accepted being partnered with Henry wordlessly, although Henry overheard a few snide remarks from a couple of other firemen. It took him a minute or two for the comments to sink in. When they did, he realized the premature aging Dickie had displayed was probably due to all the crap Hammer had been getting for 'leaving' Henry in that fire. Because he'd pulled desk duty, McConnikee'd been insulated from the sharp barbs that probably should have been tossed _his_ direction. _Another of my casualties_, he thought.

A final check of the building and the fire was kindled. Eight long minutes passed. More than one fireman fidgeted as the smoke and the flames became visible, hard-pressed to stand idle while a fire extended its reach. Others observed the fire with an almost clinical detachment, cataloguing the exterior signs and correlating them with interior reality.

When the chief signaled the fire was sufficiently involved for the evolution to begin, a general sigh went through the men, converting the mood from pensive waiting to active anticipation. Henry took a few deep breaths and pushed everything out of his mind but _this_ fire. He saw a similar concentration on Hammer's face and nodded approvingly. The young man had a lot of potential. It looked like they would be the third team in through the front.

When the second team entered, the pair stepped up to the captain who brusquely informed them to check their gear again. Henry ran experienced hands over himself and his gear, and gave a 'thumbs up' quickly. Hammer seemed to be taking a long time to do the same, and then started fumbling left-handedly with his air tank, jaw tight, an embarrassed rouge staining his cheeks. "Fall back to the end of the line," the captain said when Dickie was unable to verify his ready status in the requisite time, and motioned the next team up for an equipment check. Henry nodded and pulled the youngster along with him, trying to see what the problem was as he did. Focused on what he was doing, Henry didn't notice a familiar blue pick-up truck pulling up.

=+++= / =====

Across the street, Tom turned off the motor and let the old truck roll to a stop. Paul had told him about the live burn and he knew he had to be there. So much depended on how Henry handled this.

"Uncle Tommy?"

"Yes, Patty Mack?" He turned his head to look at the adorable four-year-old sitting next to him, her long dark hair pulled back with a red ribbon, her green eyes big and bright with curiosity.

"Are we going to play fire trucks for real today?"

"No, sweetie, but we can watch them work from here for awhile. Would you like that?" For an answer, she climbed up into his lap and stuck her head out of the window, watching intently. He shifted her knees slightly so they wouldn't dig into his thigh as painfully and kept an arm lightly around her. Suddenly, she squealed in delight and nearly fell through the window in her excitement. Tom grabbed the back of her red bib overalls to keep her in the truck.

"Daddy! Uncle Tommy, Daddy's over there! I see him! Daddy!" Patty waved happily in Henry's direction.

"Shhh, Patty, shhh! Daddy's working right now and we can't bother him. Remember what I told you? When your daddy goes into a fire, he has to think just about the fire so he'll be safe. It's like when you want to use the scissors to cut something out – ."

"Like the hearts you drew for me?"

"Exactly. Remember how you have to be careful and watch what you are doing, so you can stay on the line and not cut yourself? It's the same way with your daddy and fires."

"You mean, he has to pay a, at, a-ten-sun?"

Tom smiled. "Yes, Patty Mack, he has to pay attention. So we have to be quiet, okay?"

"Okay, Uncle Tommy," she whispered and turned again to watch her father and the fire trucks and the rapidly burning house. _Daddy'll make the fire go away soon_, she thought happily.

=+++= / + +====

"Now, remember: Check your equipment at the start of every shift, and when you stow it after a run. It only takes a few minutes but it could make a big difference." Henry continued to provide a running commentary as he deftly pulled the twisted strap free, slid it through his gloved left hand to work out the kinks and started to rethread it through the metal buckle. "The strap here was twisted, see, which is why you couldn't cinch it up properly. There you go," he concluded, pulling the smooth strap tight and clapping his partner on the back. "Got it?" Henry pulled his right glove back on.

"Got it," Dickie said, settling the air tank into position. Henry's straightforward pedagogical tone soothed his embarrassment as well.

"McConnikee, Hammer, you're up next," the training officer said. "Are you both ready this time?"

"Yes, sir," they replied in unison.

"You're the last pair, so you're responsible for extinguishing this side. Don't come out until it's out, _capisce_?"

"Yes, sir," they said together again.

"Alright, get to it."

=+++= / + ++===

"Good luck, Henry," Tom said quietly as he watched his brother enter the fire.

"Shhh, Uncle Tommy, Daddy's working." Patty's fierce, whispered admonition silenced him, a bit of a smile playing across his lips. _Children are amazing._ He tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear before rubbing small circles over her back comfortingly, deciding not to examine the question of who was comforting and who was being comforted too closely.

=+++= / + +++==

Hammer entered first, crouching down as he followed the hose into the smoky interior. When he reached the first fireman, he tapped him on the shoulder and exchanged places with him. Henry passed by both to the nozzle man and smoothly took over from him. The hand on his shoulder was a signal Dickie was ready to move forward. Without hesitation, McConnikee began to drown the fire around him.

They worked steadily, alert to fire's fickle ways. No one watching could accuse McConnikee of lingering but neither did he rush like he might have another time. He thoroughly explored the places where fire could hide; his eyes searched for that particular quiver in heated air which could presage a fiery outbreak. In one room, apparently not yet breached by the other teams, McConnikee greeted the crackling flames aggressively – thrusting forward through the door, quickly forcing a solid stream of water over every surface, stepping back abruptly. Recognizing the technique Henry'd only been able to describe for him before, Hammer stepped up and pulled the door shut, the suffocating steam denying the fire further liberties with wood and wallpaper. Where flames had already exposed the bones of the house, Henry methodically washed away any hope of rekindling the fire inside.

When the water had wiped away each trace of fire they could see, McConnikee shut off the nozzle, laid down the hose, and turned to Hammer, breaking the seal on his air mask. "Thank you," Henry said, extending his hand.

"Any time," Dick said in reply, grasping Henry's hand firmly before releasing it. "You're leaving the department then?" he asked. "Even after today?"

Henry looked down at his still-gloved hands. "This was a good day. I could be in the here and now, I could do my job, I could even enjoy it. I wanted to go into the fire but I didn't want to stay in the fire forever." He paused. "Tomorrow may be a bad day, when none of that would be true. Sooner or later, I'd get someone killed." Henry's jaw clenched and he swallowed hard before looking Dick in the eye. "Probably someone like you. So, yeah, this was my last fire."

"Well, I'm glad you let me tag along," the younger man said after a moment. "Ready to go?" he asked, picking up a loop of hose.

"Yeah." McConnikee scooped up the nozzle and began dragging the line toward the front door, Hammer muscling the hose behind him. As they approached the door, Henry looked up and saw Tommy and Patty standing with Paul by one of the engines. He had smiled and started to wave when he felt a chill scamper down his back.

_Plink. Plink, plink. Plin – ._

Glancing up toward the sound, Henry saw the top of the wall – the wall shared with the other half of the duplex – begin to darken and smoke. There was fire in the walls. "Hammer!" he yelled and aimed the nozzle toward the ceiling. As flames broke out from the wall, water spewed from the hose to quash it. Dick was right there with him.

=+++= / + ++++=

Patty saw her father coming out of the fire-damaged house and saw him smile at her. She started toward him eagerly, only to feel her uncle's hand grab the back of her overalls. "No, Patty, not yet," he said firmly, eyes narrowing when he saw Henry step back abruptly. "Just wait, hon," he added. Henry didn't reappear for several minutes and Tommy found he was telling himself the same thing he'd told Patty: _Not yet, Tommy, not yet. Just wait._

Then the two men stepped out of the house and reported to the training captain, grinning widely. When he'd stepped clear of the immediate area, Henry caught Tommy's eye and nodded once. Relieved, Tommy relaxed his hold on Patty and wasn't the least bit surprised when she started running. Her joyful shouts of "Daddy! Daddy!" cleared a path through the bemused firemen. Henry caught her up in his arms and spun her around, her delighted laughter flowing over the gathering, bringing smiles to sooty faces.

=+++= / + +++++

"Just had to be dramatic, didn't ya?"

"Who, me?"

"McConnikee …," the other man said warningly, then chuckled.

=+++= / =+++=

* * *

'_Modern' SCBAs were introduced in the 1950s but, generally speaking, were not widely used until the 1980s. So, my extensive utilization of SCBAs is probably a bit anachronistic for the mid-1950s. I rather suspect the show's utilization of SCBAs was also atypical at times. Of course, the modern firefighter seems to consider an airpack as much a part of his uniform as boots. And, I'll add another mea culpa to my list: conversing in the middle of a structure fire smacks more of Hollywood fantasy than gritty reality. I had a different location planned for the conversation (you think the big refrigerator was in there just for kicks?) but, well, it struck me as a) too involved and b) too dramatic. And we all know I would never go for convoluted or dramatic… right?_

_I anticipate one more sketch will round out this collection. And, yes, Patty and Mike are gonna be sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g …_

_I do this for fun not profit; the characters (with the exception of Henry McConnikee, Patty McConnikee and Paul Kyson) are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are._


	9. The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly

**BackStory 9: The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly**

_Allow me to offer my apologies up front - this is not my best work. A more polished, coherent version of it will likely appear in the next Mike & the McConnikees story I write._

_Note: This takes place about three years before The Call of the Day._

=+++=/+====/+====

Mike Stoker felt a wave of tenderness sweep over him as he brushed a strand of dark hair back from her tear-stained face. She had cried herself out in his arms then fallen into an uneasy sleep on the couch. Despite what his mother would call the impropriety of the situation, letting Patty sleep here until morning was the best course. And, he'd promised to look after her.

"Patty?" His voice was soft, hesitant. He was relieved when she didn't stir and moved to pick her up. _This wasn't exactly the way I expected our date to go_, he thought, suppressing a sigh as he carefully carried her to his bedroom, placing her on top of the brown and russet comforter. From the foot of his bed, Stoker picked up a ripple afghan crocheted in pumpkin orange, olive green, and mustard yellow. He unfolded it over Patty gently and left the room.

In the living room, he quietly collected her shoes and purse from beside the couch, parking the shoes by the door and the purse on the dining room table where they would be easy to find. Mike finished clearing the table and slid the dishes into a sink full of warm sudsy bubbles to soak. A crying jag wasn't exactly the same as a hangover, but the dehydration and resultant headache were remarkably similar. Or, so said his sister. He refilled Patty's glass with ice water and found his bottle of Tylenol, delivering the remedy to her bedside and exiting silently, leaving the door ajar about an inch. A small strip of light from the hallway fell across her face. He extinguished the light as he headed back to kitchen to finish washing the dishes, thinking soberly about the woman now resting in his bed.

=+++=/====+/+====

To say Patty Mack was a bit of a mystery to Mike was an understatement. They'd met about three years ago, on one of the more embarrassing nights of his life. He had been extremely drunk – by design but really drunk could still be really embarrassing – and she'd found him wandering the halls of the dorm where she was the resident assistant. He only remembered part of that night and the next morning when they'd gone through the first Kyson Drill of the week.

When he woke up, he had the vision of green eyes and dark hair in his head, the memory of 'call me specialist' in his ears, and a first name and a number scribbled on the back of a discarded library catalogue card in his hand. With only a hazy albeit tantalizing memory of the woman, Stoker didn't call. Curiosity – about both the woman who signed her name in green ink and the peculiar book on the reverse – made him keep the card.

And it was the book which brought them together again about six months later. He'd been at the university, seeing what classes might be available, when he decided to pay a visit to the campus library and check out the book if he could.

"Excuse me, ma'am, could you help me locate a book?" Stoker said politely to the older woman at the reference desk. The curved desk was made of medium-colored wood with a natural finish and was topped with black and gray flecked granite. The same natural shades of wood were repeated throughout the two-story entrance of the library, flanking clear glass windows and banded with brushed silver knobs, handles, supports and trims. A large brightly-colored mobile was suspended above the entrance, turning slowly by means of some unseen mechanism, the matte finish catching but not reflecting the light as it did.

"Have you checked the card catalogue?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I didn't find it. I wasn't sure of the exact title and didn't know the author."

"What do you think the title is?"

"The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly," he replied, saying it aloud for the first time and hearing the oddness of it afresh.

"Is this some kind of a joke, young man?" she asked sternly. Apparently she also thought it was an odd title.

"Uh, no, ma'am."

"_Butterflies_ do not have isotopes."

"No, ma'am."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Hendricks?" A small voice broke into the conversation. "I believe that was one of the titles pulled after that, uh, incident last semester." The woman, Mrs. Hendricks, looked at the student worker who had stopped checking in returned books to offer her hesitant observation. She turned back to Mike with a suspicious look on her face.

"Where did you hear about this book?"

"The title was on the back of a note I received," Mike explained briefly. He wasn't about to admit a mystery woman had given it to him after a night of drinking at O'Malley's. Such an admission was unlikely to raise his standing in Mrs. Hendricks' eyes; he probably already sounded like an idiot. After all, what kind of a person couldn't find a book with a library card catalog?

She sighed. "Green ink, right?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am?"

"Well, that explains it," the older woman said cryptically. "Just a minute." She turned from the desk and walked down a short aisle to a closed door and entered, leaving Mike with the diminutive sophomore student worker who kept casting admiring glances up at him as she checked in the same book three times. When Mrs. Hendricks returned, she actually looked amused when she told him 'Miss Patty Mack herself' would be right out to help him 'find' the book.

"Thank you, ma'am," Mike responded and stepped to the side of the desk to wait. It was not a long wait.

"Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker?" The feminine voice uttering his name and rank was full-bodied and pleasant. When he turned, he discovered the voice matched the woman – who _did_ look familiar, especially those green eyes. _Pretty eyes, pretty edges_, wandered through his mind again and this time he was able to latch onto it, along with some of their conversation that night.

"Pattyfirefighter, I presume?" he said with a slight smile.

"My friends call me Patty Mack, specialist," she replied, holding out her hand.

"Mike," he responded, taking her hand.

"Oh, no, you don't," Patty replied pertly. "_You_ said I could call you 'specialist', and I'm gonna." When he looked surprised, she added, "You were _most_ insistent about it, specialist." Some things he didn't remember and perhaps that was good for all concerned. And he could live with 'specialist' – especially the way she said it. It made him _feel_ special.

"Well, okay," he said, not sure of where to go next when he caught sight of the mobile which looked like a butterfly at this angle. "The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly?" he asked, raising his eyebrow at her.

She laughed a little too loudly by Mrs. Hendricks' standards and was summarily shushed. "A little MLS practical joke," Patty said, after giving the head librarian a contrite look, "that got out of hand last semester." She looked ready to continue the explanation when a skinny, dark-haired kid, no more than eighteen, stepped out from between the stacks and tossed his arm around Patty's shoulders. She responded by putting an arm around his waist, squeezing once and letting him go, but not dislodging his arm.

"Hey, Patty, c'mon, we're gonna be late for class," he said without acknowledging Mike's presence. He started to guide her toward the door when she tapped her chest and then the book he was carrying. Reluctantly, he pulled his arm from around her shoulders and sighed at the delay.

"Sorry I can't chat now, Mike, I have class," Patty told him, reaching behind the desk for the book bag she'd brought from the backroom. "It's good to meet you _again_. You should call me sometime … if you want to hear the rest of the story … or something."

"May just have to do that," he said noncommittally, not sure what to make of the kid eyeing him suspiciously.

"Call me, specialist," Patty said again, green eyes impish but intent.

"Isn't that supposed to be _my_ line, Patty Mack?" Mike replied with a grin, enjoying her laughter as she left the library with her book bag grasped in one hand and the glaring youth in the other. _Definitely interesting, definitely worth a call._

=+++=/====+/++===

It took him a few days to find the card he'd tucked away. When he called mid-morning, an irate female voice told him there was no 'Miss Mack' at this number. Figuring he'd only dialed the number wrong, he started to call again when they were toned out for a fire. By the time they returned and cleaned up the equipment, it was early evening. He dialed again and a male voice answered this time. When Mike identified himself and asked if he could speak to Miss Patty Mack, a heavy silence greeted him. A gruff 'Leave her alone, mister' was followed by an abrupt click. Stoker's third attempt to reach her around noon the next day went unanswered. After a few other tries – some hang-ups, some not answered – he tucked the card away again, disappointed he hadn't been able to get in touch with her. Seeing the card among the papers on his desk would make him wonder about the green-eyed lady who had flitted into and out of his life. _Maybe I'll catch her at the library again_, he thought, _when I'm on campus next semester._

=+++=/====+/+++==

An unfavorable offering of classes, however, kept Stoker off campus the next semester. The not-unexpected arrival of a new captain at Station 51 gave him the opportunity to return but the abrupt arrival of two sets of twin nieces dominated his days off as the Stokers rallied to tend the newborns. When Mike did take another class at the university, it didn't surprise him to learn no one at her old number had heard of her.

He was surprised, however, to find The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly back in the card catalogue. When he read the 'description' of the book, Stoker smiled … and discretely slipped the card from the file. "A diploma in hand results in a change of phone number for a green-eyed girl. Specialist call number 213.555.4673." A series of dates about two months apart, over the past year, were written on the reverse, in green ink. Apparently, he'd made an impression on her, too.

=+++=/====+/++++=

"Good morning, this is Patty. How may I help you?" He _thought_ he recognized the voice cloaked in a professionally neutral tone.

"Good morning, miss. I'm looking for a 'book' I lost track of. Perhaps you could help me find it?"

"I'm sorry, sir, this is an architectural firm. Perhaps you have the wrong number?"

"Is this 213-555-4673? That's the special call number on the card I found."

Pause. "Yes, it is. Perhaps I can help you. What is the title of the book you are looking for, sir?"

"The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly."

"Mike!? Is that you, specialist?"

"Yup. How ya been, Patty Mack?"

=+++=/====+/+++++

After explaining the difficulty he'd had in reaching her and learning her cousin was responsible for the gruff hang-ups, Mike suggested they meet somewhere for coffee on his next day off, to get to know each other and exchange phone numbers. Patty readily agreed.

She'd been telling him the story of the practical joke her Masters of Library Science class had pulled with the card catalogue when a couple of young men sat down at the table beside theirs and stared at her pointedly. Both were dark-haired with stocky builds. It was clear Patty knew them but after a brief glance in their direction, she ignored them. Mike raised an eyebrow at Patty, who rolled her eyes in return and continued her animated storytelling without pause.

They had finished their coffees and made plans to meet again when Mike asked if she was going to introduce her, uh, friends. The pair had been staring at _him_ darkly ever since he'd reached across the table and touched her arm to see if she wanted more coffee.

"They're not _exactly_ friends," she replied, gathering up her bag.

"Enemies, then?" he asked.

"Worse – family!" she quipped and he laughed with her. After that, it became a semi-regular occurrence for them to meet for coffee … and to see various stocky dark-haired young men in the vicinity whenever they did. Patty had said to ignore them and Mike was content to comply.

=+++=/====+/=++++

Their first 'date' had been nothing fancy: dinner and a movie, followed by coffee and dessert at one of the cafés they'd discovered in their increasingly frequent coffee talks. Patty suggested they sit outside and Stoker readily agreed, a little concerned about the unusually large crowd stuffed into the small establishment that evening. While they were finishing off pieces of an overly tart apple pie, Mike suddenly tensed and looked down the street intently. Within a minute, Squad 51 and Engine 51 went racing past, lights and sirens cutting across the pleasant night. Stoker turned to watch the vehicles, losing sight of them as they turned at the next corner. He scanned the darkening sky in the general direction the apparatus had gone, half-rising in his seat to get a better visual on the – .

"Specialist?" Patty asked. "Is something wrong?" She'd noticed the screaming fire truck was from Mike's station, 51s.

"Just checking for a header," he replied absently.

"A header?" There was a smile in her voice which caused him to twist back around to face her.

"Sorry," he said, sitting back down. "I was looking for a smoke header – an indication of how large the fire is. If you can see smoke from a couple miles away, chances are the fire is pretty big already. That can determine how you attack the fire, whether you call in other companies to assist, what kind of hose to – uh, well, all kinds of, uh, things." Mike broke off, realizing Patty probably didn't want a dissertation on how to size-up a fire scene. He knew he could go on and on about firefighting once he got started, a trait which had, in the past, screwed his chances for a second date. _Not gonna risk that tonight_.

"'All kinds of, uh, things', huh?" Patty replied. "Like what?" There was amusement as well as curiosity in her voice, but he wasn't sure which was dominant. He'd already learned she had a wicked sense of humor. Not malicious, just … wicked.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to ramble. I'm sure you don't want to hear about the details of fire scene management." Part of him wished she really was curious, not just polite. He thought he heard sirens coming from the other direction but refrained from turning to check. _Appearing more interested in a fire than the girl you're with isn't exactly the way to win Brownie points with her._ "You were telling me about that charity for – ."

"Michael," Patty interrupted, her expression serious. "There's something you should know about me." She paused, leaned forward, and motioned him closer as well, until their faces were mere inches apart. She caught and held his eyes, watching him intently. "I am more curious than a cat, more tenacious than a bulldog, and more stubborn than a mule – especially when it comes to finding out things. If I'm not curious about _something_, it generally means you should check for a pulse." Having made her proclamation, she leaned back in her chair. "Now move your chair to this side of the table so you don't sprain your neck 'not-looking' toward the fire, and tell me about headers and footers and fire scene management and 'all kinds of, uh, things'." Her mouth curved into a smile. "Please," she added.

Mike blinked. As he moved his chair beside her as ordered, he started to smile as well. This was going to be an interesting relationship. With or without the Irish mafia lurking in the background.

=+++=/====+/==+++

Patty Mack had gone out of town for a library conference shortly after their first date. She returned to find her apartment had been broken into and trashed in the interim. Fortunately, her roommate had been visiting family for a few days so only their possessions had been damaged. But Julie and Patty had both been rattled by the incident and planned to move to a better neighborhood. Mike had been hesitant to ask her out again, when her life was so unsettled, but decided to take a shot anyway. Her heartfelt 'that's just what I need, specialist' had reassured him he'd made the right decision.

Stoker had two goals for their next evening together – to stymie Patty's 'Irish mafia' bodyguards and to saturate each of her senses with beauty as an antidote to the ugliness of the break-in. So he tried to plan carefully. Fragrant flowers would be ready at the florist when he drove over to pick her up for an early dinner at a small out-of-the-way restaurant with a reputation for excellence. The Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra, conducted by Neville Marriner, would be performing Albinoni, Janácek and some other pieces in the first half of the concert at Royce Hall; a short contemporary program would be featured after the intermission, including jazz-style works by Lee Ritenour and Dave Grusin. After the concert, Mike would suggest a leisurely drive along Mulholland Drive or, if Patty preferred, along the PCH. He had even scoped out coffeehouses along both routes in case they wanted to stop for a late dessert.

Whether he'd have the opportunity to delight her with the touch of his lips would depend on how things progressed.

Of course, it hadn't quite gone that way.

Patty had been delayed by a flat tire on her way home from work and the altered spatial chronology of the evening resulting in Patty driving herself to Mike's instead of being picked up, and dinner being rescheduled so as not to miss any of the concert. Being unable to pick up her flowers and missing dinner had been unavoidable but still frustrating.

The concert itself, however, had been everything Stoker'd hoped it would be and more. Rich baroque music skillfully played flowed over the entire audience and her delighted reactions to the performance quickly soothed Mike's ruffled feathers. Any awkwardness had faded completely away by the time he reached over and held her hand, long before the segment concluded with a haunting rendition of _Adagio in G minor_.

=+++=/====+/===++

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked her during the intermission, handing her a glass of raspberry punch before picking up one for himself. She smiled up at him and took a sip of the icy concoction, as they strolled to the other side of the lobby.

"Very much so, specialist, very much," she said, giving him a quick side squeeze,appreciating the subtle aftershave he wore.

"I'm glad." He paused and took a large drink of the punch. "I had planned to suggest a drive after the concert, but I think we'd better eat first." Mike put his glass down and pulled a small paper cup out of his pocket. "I don't think this will be enough," he quipped, spilling the contents out into his napkin-covered hand.

"A drive would be great but, yeah, lunch was a while ago," she admitted. "I don't think we'd be able to get into a restaurant any time soon, though." Patty took another sip of the punch and eyed the napkin full of party mix Mike had in his hand. He moved it closer and she began to daintily pick out the Spanish peanuts and dark Chex, munching as she thought.

"Do you trust me?" Mike asked suddenly. Patty raised an eyebrow in response, waiting for more as she nibbled on a pretzel. "I can cook for us."

=+++=/====+/====+

"That was delicious," Patty said, sighing with contentment a few hours later.

"Thanks," Mike said, long legs stretched out comfortably in front of him. She looked at him across the table that held the remains of spaghetti, garlic bread, and salad. _Looking good, specialist, looking good_, she thought, noting his closed eyes and relaxed pose.

When they'd arrived at his apartment, Stoker had discarded the jacket and tie he'd worn to the concert, unbuttoning the collar and the top few buttons of his shirt before setting to work in the galley kitchen. He'd turned up his sleeves, displaying the muscularity in his forearms, after starting the water for the pasta. Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, Patty had enjoyed watching him move, efficiently going from task to task as he cooked and asked about her new job. As he listened to her responses, Mike peeled the garlic cloves by rolling them between his thumb and fingers, before slicing them finely with a sharp knife. His large hands gently pulled apart half a head of lettuce in a bowl and grated a carrot to the nub before popping it in his mouth, resulting in happy crunching. In turn, he offered her a piece of the red bell pepper slated to revive the leftover sauce he had pulled out of a neatly stocked refrigerator; Patty had playfully eaten it from his garlic-scented fingers, looking up at him through her long dark lashes as she did. The corner of his mouth had snuck up in response.

Now, the open collar of his still-spotless white dress shirt revealed the smooth tanned skin of his throat and chest, and Patty found herself eyeing his relaxed frame with – .

"I'm beginning to feel like dessert," Stoker said placidly after several minutes of being silently observed.

"I don't think I could eat anything else right now, specialist," she murmured, eyes lingering on the tanned hands he'd folded across his stomach. She noticed a small scar on the back of his right hand and wondered about its origin.

"Not exactly what I meant, hon," came the amused reply. Through his eyelashes, he observed her observing him, blue eyes mere slits. As a public servant, he was often in the eye of said public, and had come to terms with people of all ages and stations watching him as he worked, especially since he'd become an engineer. He'd learned to project reassurance and professionalism. Even so, it felt odd to have someone stare at him so intently. Stoker found it stimulating, given who was doing the staring. _This date might turn out better than I expected, even without the flowers_._ Maybe the garlic was an aphrodisiac._

"Hmmm?" Patty continued taking inventory, languidly letting her eyes travel up one muscular arm only to begin a new exploration from his shoulder to his hip. _I like the way you fit together, specialist._

"So, are you thinking apple pie or chocolate mousse?" Pause. "I feel a bit like cherry cobbler, too." Pause. "I just hope I don't look like a cream puff to you." Pause. "It would be bad for my macho fireman ego."

"Cream puff?" she said, finally meeting his lazy blue eyes. He had started to chuckle at the color rising in her cheeks when his phone rang.

Mike stood, took the few necessary steps to the kitchen and picked up the phone. "Stoker," he said, still chuckling. "Yes, this is. … Uh-huh, she's here. … Okay, just a minute. ... Right. Patty, it's for you, your roommate Julie." He brought the phone over to her and ducked back into the kitchen for the notepad and pen he kept there. He set the items down next to her plate, grabbed up the leftovers from dinner, and stepped back into the kitchen to give her some privacy. And catch his breath.

"What's up, Jules? … Uncle Tommy? Did he say what he wanted? … That's weird. … But I'm supposed to call yet tonight? … He's at Hilda's Place? … Well, did he leave a number? … Yeah, I'm ready. … Thanks, Julie. I'll let you know. Bye." Patty finished scribbling on the notepad and forced herself to exhale. A icy finger slid down her spine, short-circuiting the pleasant sexual tension which had been building between them.

"Everything okay?" he asked quietly, taking the phone from her outstretched hand when he returned, the chilling sobriety of the moment instantly apparent.

"Not sure. Jules said my uncle called and wanted me to contact him yet tonight." Patty paused. "Do you mind if I use your phone to call him, before it gets any later?"

"_Mi teléfono es su teléfono_," he said and handed the phone back to her. Stoker wasn't sure why, but he didn't have a good feeling about this phone call. He leaned against the doorjamb and waited for her to dial, for the phone to ring, for someone of importance to answer.

=+++=/====+/====+

"Hilda? Hey, it's Patty Mack. I got a message to call Uncle Tommy. … Sure. … Uncle Tommy? What's up? … No, I'm at a friend's place. … His name's Mike." She turned to Mike, eyes wide. "M-michael? My uncle wants – ." She held out the receiver to him, unable to finish her sentence.

"This is Mike."

"You're the fireman Patty's been seeing, aren't you?" The lack of preamble alerted him to the gravity of the situation.

"Yes, sir." Mike slid the notepad toward him in case he needed it, aware of Patty's eyes on him. It sure felt different now, to have her watch him so intently.

"I'm sorry to put you in this position but, to be honest, I'm glad to have a fellow firefighter on scene so to speak. There's been – Patty's dad has been in an accident." Stoker sensed that professionally reassuring mask slip over his face.

"MVA or … ?"

"No, nothing like that. He was at a fire service convention in Boston and had a chance to participate in a live burn exercise. It's been quite a while since – well, it's been a while, so he was looking forward to it. Anyway, one of the boots screwed up and apparently Henry stepped in to help. Got clobbered by an unstable partition for his trouble."

"And the extent of …?" Mike let his voice trail off, hoping the man would not make him _say_ 'injuries' in front of – .

"Not life-threatening, thank God, but it ain't Mickey Mouse, either. He sustained first and second degree burns, probably not even five percent. Some cracked ribs, perhaps a mild concussion, and what the doc who called me described as a 'helluva shiner'."

"Any complications?" He continued to stand by the table, resisting the urge to turn from her or speak in a lowered voice because he knew it would alarm her more. Brevity was his only refuge.

"None so far, but I'm sure the docs will be keeping him for the better part of a week. Henry's not a good patient."

"Will there be a need for transport?" Stoker was glad Patty's Uncle Tommy seemed to understand his clipped questions without difficulty.

"Actually, I'm at the airport now. I'll catch the red-eye out to Logan in just a little over an hour. I should have a better idea by morning what's going on, and how Henry's doing. I'll be staying at the Cobble Lane Inn. Here's the number if Patty wants to reach me." He rattled off a string of numbers.

"Got it. What about … notification?" He hoped Patty hadn't caught that tiny hesitation.

"I'll tell her." He sighed. "It's just not the kinda thing – if Patty were my own daughter, I wouldn't want her to be alone when she heard I'd been injured. She's not as tough as she likes to pretend. Will you be able to keep an eye on her tonight, son?"

"Yes, sir, for as long as I'm needed. Just a minute and I'll put her on." Mike pulled his chair over to sit beside her. "Your uncle wants to talk to you now." Patty took the phone reluctantly, then drew a deep breath and released it. Mike felt her hand trembling under his own.

"Tell me," she said abruptly into the phone.

=+++=/+====/++===

Mike finished the last of the dishes and looked at the clock. It was nearly eleven. He paused outside the bedroom door for a moment, hearing even breathing, and then dialed the number for the station.

"Station 51, Fireman Watson." Derek Watson sounded too chipper for this time of night but Stoker was glad he'd gotten the engineer directly.

"Watty, it's Stoker."

"Everything okay, man?"

"Yeah. But I may be late in the morning."

"Date going that well, Stokesy?" the other man teased.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," Mike replied automatically, prompting a laugh. "Actually, she got some bad news from home and – ."

"And she needed a shoulder to cry on, right? And you volunteered again?"

"Something like that, yeah. So, we good for the morning?"

"Sure thing, man. Give me a call if it's going to be more than a couple of hours, alright?"

"Ten-four. Thanks, Watty."

Mike hung up the phone and stifled a yawn. _Time to get settled on the couch_, he thought. He peeked into his bedroom, noting Patty had shifted positions , snuggling into the afghan more, and seemed to be sleeping, and grabbed a somewhat worn pair of cut-off sweats from the straight-backed chair by the door. After changing out of his dress slacks and shirt, he pulled out a blue blanket and spare pillow from the closet, and dimmed the lights. Within ten minutes, he too was asleep.

=+++=/+====/+++==

Bleary-eyed and thick-headed from crying, Patty exhaled slowly at the end of the darkened hall, uncertain of how to proceed. She didn't think her quick trip to the bathroom had alerted him but getting past Mike and out the door without waking him would be as difficult as slipping past Cerberus, especially in the dark. _Not that Mike's apartment is the Underworld or Mike a three-headed hellhound_, she thought, aware synapses were firing in her brain pretty randomly at this point. _I just need to go home without any more fuss._ She sighed and flattened her palm against her forehead. The Tylenol had yet to make a dent in the way she felt. _Soon, please, make it stop soon._

"Patty?" Mike's quiet voice came from the darkness ahead and she tensed. "Do you need something?" She could hear the rustle of fabric as he sat up and turned on the light. "Come here, hon," he invited. In the mirror she didn't realize was there, he watched her wince at being discovered. Back when he'd had a roommate given to 'entertaining' the ladies, being able to check the living room and the hallway when he came in the front door had been a matter of survival; now the mirror by the entryway was a sometimes useful decorating quirk.

Tonight was one of those times. He watched as, like an actress about to step from the wings and onto the stage, she smoothed her hair, inhaled deeply, and began to glide down the hallway, pulling a calm expression on like a shirt as she did.

"Hey," she said stepping into the living room. Patty colored slightly to find him sitting bare-chested in a nest of blankets on the couch. "I'm sorry to have been such a bother tonight, Mike," she continued, declining the seat he offered with the wave of his hand. "I'll be out of your hair in five minutes, less with coffee," she said, trying to make a joke of it. Coffee or no, she planned to be gone in two minutes if she could just find her shoes. _There they are._

Mike ran his fingers through his hair, frowned, and then did it again more vigorously, rubbing his scalp lightly but thoroughly mussing his hair in the process. He looked at his empty hands, shrugged, and smiled, trying to put her at ease. She smiled brightly at his attempt at humor, although the smile didn't reach her red-rimmed eyes. "Are you saying I'm not in your hair?"

"Pretty much," Stoker responded genially, finger-combing his hair back into place with one hand and reaching for the shirt he'd left draped over the back of the couch with the other. "Look, it's late and I'm sure you're tired. Why don't you just stay? I promise to fix you coffee and breakfast in the morning. I make good coffee, you know." He pulled his dress shirt back on, leaving it unbuttoned.

"Whatcha gonna do if I wanna leave instead? Lock me up?" Patty smiled charmingly, playing the comedienne to disguise how awful she felt, with less success than she imagined. _Hold it together, Patty, just a little longer._

"Nah, I wouldn't do that. I might hide your car keys though if you're not fit to drive." The tightness around her eyes clued him in to the tension headache she was battling. "Friends don't let friends drive drowsy _or_ drunk." _Or distraught_, he added to himself.

"Hmm. Maybe a cab then? If I can get my purse?" Her eyes darted around the room for her purse. _Don't start crying again._

"It's on the table," he replied soberly, puzzled now by her insistence on the issue of leaving. Mike pushed himself off the couch and walked toward the kitchen. "Patty? What's going on?" He leaned against the wall, watching as she sat at the table and put her shoes on.

"Nothing. Just need to get home." She looked up briefly. "As you said, it's late and I'm tired."

"All the more reason to stay."

"Thanks for the offer, really, but I'd feel better just going on back to my apartment." All at once, the acetaminophen kicked in and the teeth in her scalp retracted a few millimeters, making it possible for her to produce a more genuine smile. Stoker eyed it, and her, skeptically.

"Will you call me when you get home, just so I know you made it safely?" he asked finally.

"Sure." Shoes fastened, car keys in hand, Patty stood. "I had a good time tonight, Mike. Sorry I spoiled the end of it with, well, everything."

"Not a problem," he replied. "It wasn't your fault." Stoker unlocked and opened the door for her, stepping outside after her. "I'll watch to make sure you get to your car," he explained, leaning over the railing. "Call me when you get home, okay?"

"Sure," she said and carefully descended the stairs to the parking lot, giving him a wave as she got into her car.

=+++=/+====/++++=

A familiar but annoying buzz seemed to cause the axe to stop spinning in midair. He let the handle slide across his palm until he grasped the familiar implement just below the head, then walked into the kitchen to turn off the timer, double-checking the clock as he did. It had been an hour, which was too long. Even in heavy traffic the journey to Patty's would not have taken more than thirty-five minutes. He knew that; he'd timed it. Now, at night, it should have been a breeze.

Walking back into the half-lit living room, Stoker considered his options, twirling the fire axe slowly in his other hand. Calling would be the easiest. _But phone calls in the middle of the night rarely bring good news and with her dad in the hospital, she'll think the worst._ Assuming everything was fine, that she'd merely been too tired or forgetful to call, would also be easy. Driving to her apartment in the middle of the night, just to check on her, well, that would be an overreaction certainly. Make him look like a fool, an overprotective, chauvinistic fool. _Especially if she's fine._

On the flip side was his sense of honor pricking him awake every few minutes until he heard from her.

_Overreacting it is then_, he thought, standing his axe back in the corner. Stoker pulled on his t-shirt, slipped his keys off the hook by the door and headed out on his fool's errand.

Mike stopped at the bottom of the stairs, relieved. _Stubborn, but not stupid. _He approached her car, crouched down beside it and rapped on the window, startling her out of sleep. Patty rolled down her window reluctantly when she recognized him. "I'm sorry, miss, but this is a No Napping Zone. You'll have to come with me," he deadpanned.

=+++=/+====/+++++

Ten minutes later, negotiations were progressing at the table.

"What if I wanna bedtime story?" She tried to affect a little girl voice and Mike allowed his smile to show.

"Then I'll read you a bedtime story." He nodded to the bottom shelf of the bookcase where a collection of children's books waited. His nieces and nephews all had their own favorites so she would have plenty to choose from. Stoker's own favorites from childhood were also available.

"And if I wanna teddy bear?" Patty dropped back into her normal voice.

"Then I'll loan you a teddy bear." Mike pointed to the large wicker basket beside the bookcase, a basket overflowing with soft plush toys of various sizes, including several teddy bears. "Anything else you need for a good night's sleep?" he asked, eyebrow raised. She shook her head. "Then pick out a story and a teddy bear, missy, and we'll get you tucked in."

=+++=/+====/=++++

"Why am I not surprised you have this book?" she said, holding up a somewhat tattered Golden Book with cartoonish fire trucks on the front of it. "When I was little, my mom would read me this story whenever Daddy was on duty. I always liked it because it involved fire trucks and firemen." She was kneeling in front of the bookcase, picking out a book and a bear. Patty had already changed into the gray sweatpants and dark blue t-shirt Mike had loaned her for the night, and quick-braided her hair back.

"That's right; your dad was a fireman." Given what had happened earlier, Stoker winced internally at the idiocy of the statement. _Brilliant, Stoker, brilliant; that's why he's in a Boston hospital._

"Yup, my uncle, too. Sometimes, if I couldn't sleep, my aunt would take me down to the station and he'd read me the story, making all of the appropriate noises. I'd fall asleep there at the station and wake up in my own bed the next morning, the smell of smoke and fire from Uncle Tommy's turnouts still on my pajamas."

"Well, my turnouts are at the station, so hopefully a smoky smell isn't required for a good night's sleep."

"As long as you do the fire engine noises, I think we'll be okay."

"Ten-four, Patty Mack. Fire engine noises coming right up."

=+++=/+====/==+++

"'… and all the firemen returned safely to the station, tired but happy to have put out the fire. The End.'" Mike finished the story and closed the book, laying it on his lap.

He looked down at the woman resting on the bed beside him. Everything about her right now made him want to protect her. A teddy bear – a somewhat scraggly specimen in gray and white fur with mournful brown eyes – was tucked under her arm with childlike innocence. His dark blue shirt seemed to swallow Patty up, stripping away more years. He suspected she wasn't fully asleep yet but her eyes were closed, limbs relaxed, mind and body finally yielding to the day's stresses. Mike waited a few more minutes, counting her breaths, then eased himself off the bed, hoping he wouldn't disturb her.

"Good night, hon," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Sleep well."

=+++=/+====/===++

Just before three a.m., a small sound woke him, little more than the _click-hum_ which preceded the tones sounding at the station. Stoker hovered on the edge of consciousness for a few minutes, waiting for the sound to repeat itself. When it didn't, he rolled onto his stomach and grabbed the pillow more tightly, sliding back toward sleep.

A new sound, full-bodied and intense, stopped that slide abruptly: "Daddy don't go daddy I'm sorry daddy don't go I'm sorry don't be mad at me daddy don't leave me." Mike ran down the hall to his bedroom. Moonlight spilled in through the window now, bleaching the scene to black and gray and cool white. Patty was crying out in her sleep, wrapped in a nightmare.

"Patty, Patty, honey, wake up now," Mike pleaded, gently shaking her to wake her without scaring her. Her eyes flew open, sought and found Mike. "Easy, hon, it's Mike."

"Mike?" she said, voice rough.

"Yeah, Mike. You were having a nightmare. You're safe now," he murmured. As he held her to his bare chest and stroked her hair, Stoker could feel her heart pounding through the thin cotton t-shirt he'd loaned her to sleep in, the ragged breaths being forced into and out of her lungs, the trembling in her body.

Slowly, the tremors eased and Patty murmured something into his chest, her voice vibrating against his skin. "Hmmm?" he inquired, loosening his hold on her so he could see her face.

"I said, 'I guess I did need the smoky smell too'," she repeated, looking up at him with a wry expression, drawing a chuckle from him. Still smiling, Mike tucked another wayward strand of hair back behind her ear.

=+++=/+====/====+

When she woke at about nine, Mike was gone from the apartment. He'd left a note on her purse.

_Patty –_

_HQ called about 0430; the C-shift engineer was  
struck by a car at a fire scene and they needed  
me to come in early to replace him. No real word  
on how Watty's doing yet. Since you were finally  
sleeping peacefully again, I decided not to wake you.  
Feel free to use the phone and check on your dad.  
You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like, just  
lock up when you leave. I left fixings for breakfast  
in the fridge; help yourself to whatever looks good.  
See you next week for coffee as usual?_

_Yours,_

_Mike_

_PS – Call the station if you need anything. If I'm  
not there, any of the guys can help. 555-3651._

=+++=/+====/=====

When Mike returned the next morning, he found a note from Patty propped up on the table.

_Mike –_

_Instead of coffee next week, would you be interested  
in coming to the organizational meeting at the Peds  
Burn Center? We could really use your help. (Not a  
big deal if you can't make it.) Daddy's doing some  
better as of this morning but it looks like I might be  
staying with him for a while when he gets back to L.A.  
Someone has to sit on him so he'll let himself heal!  
I had a wonderful time at the concert with you.  
And, in case I haven't mentioned it enough already,  
I really appreciate you looking out for me last night;  
some guys would have fled at the first sign of a weepy  
female without a backward glance. Talk to you soon,  
specialist._

_Cheers,_

_Patty_

_PS – I hope your friend is doing alright._

=+++=/=+++=

* * *

_Okay, so there really wasn't much k-i-s-s-i-n-g herein but don't blame me; the characters do what they do whether I want them to or not. I am marking this collection of sketches as complete but do not despair! The story of Mike and Patty will continue. In fact, I intend for this year's NaNoWriMo effort to be centered on Mike and the McConnikees. (NaNoWriMo = National Novel Writing Month)_

_I do this for fun, not profit; the characters are not mine (with the exception of Patty McConnikee and Henry McConnikee) but the mistakes (without exception) are._


End file.
